Viewed in any light the predicament was a peculiar and distressing one to the guests of Hotel Helicon. The sheriff, a rather ignorant, but very stubborn and determined man, held executions and writs of attachment sued out by Gaslucky creditors, which he had proceeded to levy on the hotel and on all the personalty visible in it belonging to the proprietor.
“’Course,” said he, “hit’ll be poorty hard on you’ns, but I can’t help it, I’ve got ter do my juty, let it hurt whoever it will. Not er thing kin ye tech at’s in this yer tavern, ’ceptin’ what’s your’n, that air’s jest how it air. So now mind w’at yer a doin’.”
The servants were idle, the dining-room closed, the kitchen and pantries locked up. Never was there a more doleful set of people. Mrs. Nancy Jones Black thought of playing a piece of sacred music, but she found the grand piano locked, with its key deep in the sheriff’s pocket.
The situation was made doubly disagreeable when at last the officer informed the guests that they would have to vacate their rooms forthwith, as he should proceed at once to close up the building.
“Heavens, man, are you going to turn us out into the woods?” demanded Peck.
“Woods er no woods,” he replied, “ye’ll hev ter git out’n yer, right off.”
“But the ladies, Mr. Sheriff,” suggested Punner, “no Southern gentleman can turn a lady out of doors.”
The officer actually colored with the force of the insinuation. He stood silent for some time with his eyes fixed on the floor. Presently he looked up and said:
“The weeming kin stay till mornin’.”