"Yes, and ask if Zene stopped here. I don't see a sign of the wagon."
Her grandson opened the carriage door and ran down the steps. The
white-scrubbed hall detained him several minutes before he returned
with a large man who smoked a crooked-stemmed pipe during the
conference. The man held the bowl of the pipe in his hand which was
fat and red. So was his face. He had a mighty tuft of hair on his
upper lip. His shirt sleeves shone like new snow through the dark.
"Goot efenins," he said very kindly.
"I want to stop here over night," said Grandma Padgett. "We're
moving, and our wagon is somewhere on this road. Have you seen
anything of a wagon--and a white and a gray horse?"
"Oh, yes," said the tavern keeper, nodding his head. "Dere is lots
of wakkons on de road aheadt."
"Well, we can't go further ourselves. Can you take the lines?"
"Oh, nein," said the tavern-keeper mildly. "I don't keep moofers mit
my house. Dey goes a little furter."
"You don't keep movers!" said Grandma Padgett indignantly. "What's
your tavern for?"
"Oh, yah," replied the host with undisturbed benevolence. "Dey goes
a little furter."
"Why have you put out a sign to mislead folks?"
The tavern keeper took the pipe out of his mouth to look up at his
sign.
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