r legs will be busy for the rest of your natural days."

He seemed about to continue his observations along this philosophical
line, when the manager appeared in much perturbation, approaching the
landlord, who, at the same time, had entered the room from the
kitchen.

"The ladies insist that their sheets are damp," began the manager in
his most plausible manner.

A dangerous light appeared in the other's eyes.

"It's the weather, you understand. Not your fault; bless you, no!"

The landlord's face became a shade less acrimonious.

"Now, if there was a fire in the room--it is such a comfortable,
cheery room--"

"Sandy!" interrupted the host, calling to the long-armed, red-handed
stable boy, who thrust a shock of hair through the kitchen door.
"Build a fire upstairs."

Mr. Barnes heaved a sigh of relief and drawing a chair to the blaze
prepared once more to enjoy a well-earned rest.

By this time the shadows had begun to lengthen in the room as the
first traces of early twilight filled the valley. The gurgling still
continued down the water pipe; the old sign before the front door
moaned monotonously. An occasional gust of wind, which mysteriously
penetrated the mist without sweeping it aside, rattled the windows and
waved wildly in mid-air a venturesome rose which had clambered to the
second story of the old inn. The barn-yard appeared even more dismal
because of the coming darkness and the hens presented a pathetic
picture of discomfort as they tucked their heads under their wet
feathers for the night, while his lordship, the rooster, was but a
sorry figure upon his high perch, with the moisture regularly and
unceasingly dripping through the roof of the hen-house upon his
unprotected back.

An aroma from the kitchen which penetrated the room seemed especially
grateful to the manager who smiled with satisfaction as he conjured up
visions of the forthcoming repast. By his Falstaffian girth, he
appeared a man not averse to good living, nor one to deny himself
plentiful libations of American home-brewed ale.

"Next to actual dining," observed this past-master in the art, "are
the anticipations of the table. The pleasure consists in speculation
regarding this or that aroma, in classifying the viands and separating
this combination of culinary odors into courses of which you will in
due time partake. Alas for the poor stroller when the tavern ceases to
be! Already it is almost extinct on account of the Erie Can