I went down to the bridge and the toll-gatherer gave me
as much as I could eat, twenty five cents in money, and a
pocket-full of food to carry with me. I was heading, footing rather,
for Meredith Bridge in New Hampshire. It was in the month of
December; and I was poorly clad and without an overcoat. I must
have walked fifteen miles that afternoon, and just at nightfall I
came to a wayside public house and ventured to go in. As I stood by
the fire, the landlord stepped up and slapping me on the shoulder,
said:
"Friend, you look as if you were in trouble; step up and have
something to drink."
I gladly accepted the invitation to partake of the first glass of
liquor I had tasted in three years. It was something, too,
everything to be addressed thus kindly. I told this worthy landlord
my whole story; how I had been trapped by the two milliners, and how
I had subsequently suffered. He had read something about it in the
papers; he felt as if he knew me; he certainly was sorry for me; and
he proved his sympathy by giving me what then seemed to me the best
supper I had ever eaten, a good bed, a good breakfast, a package of
provisions to carry with me, and then sent me on my way with a
comparatively light heart.
It rained, snowed, and drizzled all day long. I tramped through the
wet snow ankle deep, but made nearly forty miles before night, and
then came to a public house which I knew well. When I was in the
bar-room drying myself and warming my wet and half-frozen feet, I
could not but think how, only a few years before, I had put up at
that very house, with a fine horse and buggy of my own in the
stable, and plenty of money in my pocket.
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