The dining-room of the Palace Hotel was a large, airy apartment, rustling
with artistically perforated and slashed pink paper that hung everywhere,
at this season of the year, to lend festal effect as well as to palliate
the scourge of flies. There were six or seven large tables, all vacant
except that at which Columbus Landis, the landlord, sat with his guests,
while his wife and children ate in the kitchen by their own preference.
Transient trade was light in Plattville; nobody ever came there, except
occasional commercial travellers who got out of town the instant it was
possible, and who said awful things if, by the exigencies of the railway
time-table, they were left over night.
Behind the host's chair stood a red-haired girl in a blue cotton gown; and
in her hand she languidly waved a long instrument made of clustered strips
of green and white and yellow tissue paper fastened to a wooden wand;
with this she amiably amused the flies except at such times as the
conversation proved too interesting, when she was apt to rest it on the
shoulder of one of the guests. This happened each time the editor of the
"Herald" joined in the talk. As the men seated themselves they all nodded
to her and said, "G'd evening, Cynthy." Harkless always called her
Charmion; no one knew why. When he came in she moved around the table to a
chair directly opposite him, and held that station throughout the meal,
with her eyes fixed on his face. Mr. Martin noted this manoeuvre--it
occurred regularly twice a day--with a stealthy smile at the girl, and her
light skin flushed while her lip curled shrewishly at the old gentleman.
"Oh, all right, Cynthy," he whispered to her, and chuckled aloud at her
angry toss of the head.
"Schofields' seemed to be kind of put out with me this evening," he
remarked, addressing himself to the company. "He's the most ungratefullest
cuss I ever come up with. I was only oratin' on how proud the city ought
to be of him. He fairly keeps Plattville's sportin' spirit on the gog;
'die out, wasn't for him. There's be'n more money laid on him whether
he'll strike over and above the hour, or under and below, or whether he'll
strike fifteen minutes before time, or twenty after, than--well, sir, we'd
all forgit the language if it wasn't for Schofields' bell to keep us
talkin'; that's my claim. Dull days, think of the talk he furnishes all
over town. Think what he's done to promote conversation. Now, for
instance, Anna Belle Bardlock's got a beau, they say"--here old Tom tilted
back in his chair and turned an innocent eye upon a youth across the
table, young William Todd, who was blushing over his griddle-cakes--"and I
hear he's a good deal scared of Anna Belle and not just what you might
call brash with her. They say every Sunday night he'll go up to Bardlocks'
and call on Anna Belle from half-past six till nine, and when he's got
into his chair he sets and looks at the floor and the crayon portraits
till about seven; then he opens his tremblin' lips and says, 'Reckon
Schofields' must be on his way to the court-house by this time.' And about
an hour later, when Schofields' hits four or five, he'll speak up again,
'Say, I reckon he means eight.' 'Long towards nine o'clock, they say he
skews around in his chair and says, 'Wonder if he'll strike before time or
after,' and Anna Belle answers out loud, 'I hope after,' for politeness;
but in her soul she says, 'I pray before'; and then Schofields' hits her
up for eighteen or twenty, and Anna Belle's company reaches for his hat.
Three Sundays ago he turned around before he went out and said, 'Do you
like apple-butter?' but never waited to find out. It's the same programme
every Sunday evening, and Jim Bardlock says Anna Belle's so worn out you
wouldn't hardly know her for the blithe creature she was last year--the
excitement's be'n too much for her!"