In the Midst of Alarms | Page 9

cocktail fill the vacancy?"
"I can suggest nothing better," replied Yates. "If you are sure you know
how to make it."
The man did not resent this imputation of ignorance. He merely said,
with the air of one who gives an incontrovertible answer:
I am a Kentucky man myself."
"Shake!" cried Yates briefly, as he reached his hand across the bar.
"How is it you happened to be here?"
"Well, I got in to a little trouble in Louisville, and here I am, where I
can at least look at God's country."
"Hold on," protested Yates. "You're making only one cocktail."
"Didn't you say one?" asked the man, pausing in the compounding.
"Bless you, I never saw one cocktail made in my life. You are with me
on this."
"Just as you say," replied the other, as he prepared enough for two.
"Now I'll tell you my fix," said Yates confidentially. "I've got a tent and
some camp things down below at the customhouse shanty, and I want
to get them taken into the woods, where I can camp out with a friend. I
want a place where we can have absolute rest and quiet. Do you know
the country round here? Perhaps you could recommend a spot."
"Well, for all the time I've been here, I know precious little about the
back country. I've been down the road to Niagara Falls, but never back
in the woods. I suppose you want Some place by the lake or the river?"
"No, I don't. I want to get clear back into the forest--if there is a forest."
"Well, there's a man in to-day from somewhere near Ridgeway, I think.
He's got a hay rack with him, and that would be just the thing to take

your tent and poles. Wouldn't be very comfortable traveling for you,
but it would be all right for the tent, if it's a big one."
"That will suit us exactly. We don't care a cent about the comfort.
Roughing it is what we came for. Where will I find him?"
"Oh, he'll be along here soon. That's his team tied there on the side
street. If he happens to be in good humor, he'll take your things, and as
like as not give you a place to camp in his woods. Hiram Bartlett's his
name. And, talking of the old Nick himself, here he is. I say, Mr.
Bartlett, this gentleman was wondering if you couldn't tote out some of
his belongings. He's going out your way."
Bartlett was a somewhat uncouth and wiry specimen of the Canadian
farmer who evidently paid little attention to the subject of dress. He
said nothing, but looked in a lowering way at Yates, with something of
contempt and suspicion in his glance.
Yates had one receipt for making the acquaintance of all mankind.
"Come in, Mr. Bartlett," he said cheerily, "and try one of my friend's
excellent cocktails."
"I take mine straight," growled Bartlett gruffly, although he stepped
inside the open door. "I don't want no Yankee mixtures in mine. Plain
whisky's good enough for any man, if he is a man. I don't take no water,
neither. I've got trouble enough."
The bartender winked at Yates as he shoved the decanter over to the
newcomer.
"Right you are," assented Yates cordially.
The farmer did not thaw out in the least because of this prompt
agreement with him, but sipped his whisky gloomily, as if it were a
most disagreeable medicine.
"What did you want me to take out?" he said at last.

"A friend and a tent, a jug of whisky and a lot of jolly good tobacco."
"How much are you willing to pay?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm always willing to do what's right. How would
five dollars strike you?"
The farmer scowled and shook his head.
"Too much," he said, as Yates was about to offer more. "'Taint worth it.
Two and a half would be about the right figure. Don'no but that's too
much. I'll think on it going home, and charge you what it's worth. I'll be
ready to leave in about an hour, if that suits you. That's my team on the
other side of the road. If it's gone when you come back, I'm gone, an'
you'll have to get somebody else."
With this Bartlett drew his coat sleeve across his mouth and departed.
"That's him exactly," said the barkeeper. "He's the most cantankerous
crank in the township. And say, let me give you a pointer. If the subject
of 1812 comes up,--the war, you know,--you'd better admit that we got
thrashed out of our boots; that is, if you want to get along with Hiram.
He hates Yankees like poison."
"And did we get thrashed in 1812?" asked Yates, who was more