The one thing a Kentuckian never shrinks from is a challenge. He only said, “Wait a minute,” while putting his broad shoulder against the door; but now George and I interfered. Neither of us had any desire to signalize our entry into the village by a brawl, and after some trouble we succeeded in pacifying our fire-eater with the promise to stop at this house on our way back.
“I shall know it again,” said the colonel, looking back, and nibbling his long mustache with suppressed wrath; “something has been spilled on the threshold—something like blood.”
We laughed heartily. The blood, we concluded, was in the colonel’s eyes.
Some time after nightfall we arrived in the village, having put thirteen miles of road behind us without fatigue. Our host received us with a blazing fire—what fires they do have in the mountains, to be sure!—a pitcher of cider, and the remark, “Don’t be afraid of it, gentlemen.”
All three hastened to reassure him on this point. The colonel began with a loud smack, and George finished the jug with a deep sigh.
“Don’t be afraid of it,” repeated the landlord, returning presently with a fresh pitcher. “There are five barrels more like it in the cellar.”
“Landlord,” quoth George, “let one of your boys take a mattress, two blankets, and a pillow to the cellar. I intend to pass the night there.”
“I only wish your well was full of it,” said the colonel, taking a second pull at the jug, and making a second explosion with his lips.
“Gentlemen,” said I, “we have surely entered a land of milk and honey.”
“You shall have as much of both as you desire,” said our host, very affably. “Supper is ready, gentlemen.”