his melancholy reflection was made by the noble Mr. Peter Bus, whom a
cruel fate had called to be a perpetual wrangler with guests on the
cross-roads of the famous county of Szabolcs, for he was the innkeeper
of the "Break-'em-tear-'em" _csarda_ there. That worthy inn owed its
name, not to its ancestors, but to its own peculiar merits, for no
traveller could possibly reach that sweet haven till he had had endless
spills and been nearly torn to pieces. This was especially the case at
such times when the floodgates of Heaven were open, and it naturally
occurred to a man's mind how much better it would have been to have had
floodgates on the earth instead, for then you would not be brought to a
standstill on the dike between two ponds, with the ground so soaking wet
beneath your feet that there seemed nothing for it but to stick there
till you grew old, or carry your waggon away with you on your back.

It was drawing towards evening. Mr. Peter Bus was coming home from his
fields on horseback, grumbling to himself, but softly, for he grudged
taking his pipe out of his mouth merely for the sake of what he was
saying, which goes to prove that pipes were invented in order that man
may have something to stuff his mouth with, and thus stop from swearing
so much. "All the hay has gone to the devil already," he muttered, "and
he'll have the wheat too! The whole shoot has gone to the deuce!" For
the innkeeper of the _csarda_ does not live by only doling out wine, but
is a bit of a farmer besides, and his business is no sinecure.

While he was thus murmuring to himself, a dubious-looking being of the
feminine gender, of whom it was difficult to judge whether she was a
spouse or a scullery-maid, appeared at the extreme end of the dike,
which led towards the River Theiss.

"Isn't there a coach coming along there?" she said.

"So I'm to be saddled with guests on an infernal day like this, eh! It
only needed that," said Peter Bus, grumbling still more. He did not look
in the direction indicated, but hastened into his pothouse to strip off
his saturated pelisse before the fire, and swear a little more. "When
our store of bread is gone, I don't know where I am to get any more
from, but I don't mean to starve for anybody."

At last, however, he condescended to look out of the window, drying the
sweat from his brow the while, and perceived a carriage a good distance
off, drawn by four post-horses, struggling along the dike. He made a
ge