he Literary Society of West Norrington, Vt., had invited me to lecture on a certain Tuesday night in February.
The Tuesday night had arrived. So had the train. So had the knock-kneed, bandy-legged hack—two front wheels bowed in, two hind wheels bowed out—and so had the lecturer.
West Norrington is built on a hill. At the foot are the station, a saw-mill, and a glue factory. On the top is a flat plateau holding the principal residences, printing-office, opera-house, confectionery store, druggist's, and hotel. Up the incline is a scattering of cigar-stores, butcher shops, real-estate agencies, and one lone restaurant. You know it is a restaurant by the pile of extra-dry oyster-shells in the window—oysterless for months—and the four oranges bunched together in a wire basket like a nest of pool balls. You know it also from the sign—
"Five meals for a dollar."
I saw this sign on my way up the hill, but it made no impression on my mind. I was bound for the hotel—the West Norrington Arms, the conductor called it; and as I had eaten nothing since seven o'clock, and it was then four, I was absorbed mentally in arranging a bill of fare. Broiled chicken, of course, I said to myself—always get delicious broiled chicken in the country—and a salad, and perhaps—you can't always tell, of course, what the cellars of these old New England taverns may contain—yes, perhaps a pint of any really good Burgundy, Pommard, or Beaune.
"West Norrington Arms" sounded well. There was a distinct flavor of exclusiveness and comfort about it, suggesting old side-boards, hand-polished tables, small bar with cut-glass decanters, Franklin stoves in the bedrooms, and the like. I could already see the luncheon served in my room, the bright wood fire lighting up the dimity curtains draping the high-post bedstead. Yes, I would order Pommard.
Here the front knees came together with a jerk. Then the driver pulled his legs out of a buffalo-robe, opened the door with a twist, and called out,—
"Nor'n't'n Arms."
I got out.