"Boosh, tonner and blitzen, der rain not hurt yer ole gig!"
"I pay you for vat you sal do for me, mind vat I sal say, sair, if you pleaze."
The hostler, very surlily, led the traveller's weary old brute to the stable; but, prior to carrying out the orders of the traveller, he sought the landlord, to know if it would pay to put up the shabby concern, and treat the old horse to a real feed of hay and oats, without making some inquiries into the financial situation of the old Frenchman.
The landlord, with a country lawyer and a neighboring farmer, were at the Bar, one of those old-fashioned slatted coops, in a corner, peculiar to Pennsylvania, discussing the merits of a law suit, seizure of the property, &c., of a deceased tiller of the soil, in the vicinity. Busily chatting, and quaffing their toddy, the entrance of the poor old traveller was scarcely noticed, until he had divested himself of his old, many-caped cloak, and demurely taken a seat in the room. The hostler having reappeared, and talked a little Dutch to the host, that worthy turned to the traveller—
"Good even'ns, thravel'r!"
"Yes, sair;" pleasantly responded the Frenchman, "a little."
"You got a hoss, eh?" continued the landlord.
"Yes, sair, I vish ze hostlair to give mine hoss plenty to eat—plenty hay, plenty oats, plenty watair, sair."
"Yaw," responded the landlord, "den, Jacob, give'm der oats, and der hay, and der water;" and, with this brief direction to his subordinate, the landlord turned away from the way-worn traveller to resume his conversation with his more, apparently, influential friends. The old Frenchman very patiently waited until the discussion should cease, and the landlord's ear be disengaged, that he might be apprized of the fact that travellers had stomachs, and that of the old French gentleman was highly incensed by long delay, and more particularly by the odorous fumes of roast fowls, ham and eggs, &c., issuing from the inner portion of the tavern.
"Landlord, I vil take suppair, if you please," said he.