The sun had gone down when they whirled up to the tavern, whose swinging sign was ornamented with a rude picture of a greyhound. A bright fire was blazing in the parlor. They laid aside their outer garments and warmed themselves by its ruddy glow. The keen, fresh air had sharpened their appetites for supper. Chloe and Samson, cook and table-waiter, served them with beefsteak hot from the gridiron, swimming in butter; potatoes roasted in the ashes; shortcake steaming hot from the Dutch oven.
“Shall I brew Bohea, Hyson, or Hyperion[36] tea,” the landlady asked, beginning with Miss Newville and glancing at each in turn.
“I will take Hyperion,” Miss Newville replied, with a tact and grace that made her dearer than ever to Berinthia, and to them all, knowing as they did that Bohea and Hyson were still served in her own home.
Supper over, they returned to the parlor, where the bright flame on the hearth was setting their shadows to dancing on the walls. The feet of Mary Shrimpton were keeping time to the ticking of the clock.
“Why can’t we have a dance?” she asked.
“Why not?” all responded.
“I’ll see if we can find Uncle Brutus,” said Tom.
Uncle Brutus was the white-haired old negro who did chores about the tavern.
“Yes, massa, I can play a jig, quickstep, minuet, and reel. De ladies and genmen say I can play de fiddle right smart,” Brutus responded, rolling his eyes and showing his well-preserved white teeth.
“If de ladies and genmen will wait a little till old Brutus can make himself ’spectable, he’ll make de fiddle sing.”