“Why, no!” I exclaimed, looking at the stage loaded inside and out. “This isn't a tavern. We couldn't get breakfast for a stage-load of people.”
“What have you got a sign up fur, then?” roared the driver, getting red in the face.
“That's so,” cried two or three men from the top of the stage. “If it aint a tavern, what's that sign doin' there?”
I saw I must do something. I stepped up close to the stage and looked in and up.
“Are there any sailors in this stage?” I said. There was no response. “Any soldiers? Any farmers or mechanics?”
At the latter question I trembled, but fortunately no one answered.
“Then,” said I, “you have no right to ask to be accommodated; for, as you may see from the sign, our house is only for soldiers, sailors, farmers, and mechanics.”
“And besides,” cried Euphemia from the piazza, “we haven't anything to give you for breakfast.”
The people in and on the stage grumbled a good deal at this, and looked as if they were both disappointed and hungry, while the driver ripped out an oath, which, had he thrown it across a creek, would soon have made a good-sized millpond.
He gathered up his reins and turned a sinister look on me.