FullReads

They were sitting at the breakfast-table in the Ethan Allen Hotel, having arrived at nightfall the day before. Mrs. Pinkham looked a little pale about the mouth. She had been kept awake nearly all night by the noise, and had enjoyed but little the evening she had spent in the stuffy parlor of the hotel, looking down out of the window at what seemed to her but garish scenes, and keeping a reproachful and suspicious eye upon some unpleasantly noisy young women of forward behavior who were her only companions. Abel himself was by no means so poorly entertained in the hotel office and smoking-room. He felt much more at home than she did, being better used to meeting strange men than she was to strange women, and he found two or three companions who had seen more than he of New York life. It was there, indeed, that the young reporter found him, hearty and country-fed, and loved the appearance of his best clothes, and the way Mr. Abel Pinkham brushed his hair, and loved the way that he spoke in a loud and manful voice the belief and experience of his honest heart.

In the morning at breakfast-time the Pinkhams were depressed. They missed their good bed at home; they were troubled by the roar and noise of the streets that hardly stopped over night before it began again in the morning. The waiter did not put what mind he may have had to the business of serving them; and Mrs. Abel Pinkham, whose cooking was the triumph of parish festivals at home, had her own opinion about the beefsteak. She was a woman of imagination, and now that she was fairly here, spectacles and all, it really pained her to find that the New York of her dreams, the metropolis of dignity and distinction, of wealth and elegance, did not seem to exist. These poor streets, these unlovely people, were the end of a great illusion. They did not like to meet each other’s eyes, this worthy pair. The man began to put on an unbecoming air of assertion, and Mrs. Pinkham’s face was full of lofty protest.

“My gracious me, Mary Ann! I am glad I happened to get the ‘Tribune’ this mornin’,” said Mr. Pinkham, with sudden excitement. “Just you look here! I’d like well to know how they found out about our comin’!” and he handed the paper to his wife across the table. “There–there ‘t is; right by my thumb,” he insisted. “Can’t you see it?” and he smiled like a boy as she finally brought her large spectacles to bear upon the important paragraph.

“I guess they think somethin’ of us, if you don’t think much o’ them,” continued Mr. Pinkham, grandly. “Oh, they know how to keep the run o’ folks who are somebody to home! Draper and Fitch knew we was comin’ this week: you know I sent word I was comin’ to settle with them myself. I suppose they send folks round to the hotels, these newspapers, but I shouldn’t thought there’d been time. Anyway, they’ve thought ‘t was worthwhile to put us in!”

Mrs. Pinkham did not take the trouble to make a mystery out of the unexpected pleasure. “I want to cut it out an’ send it right up home to daughter Sarah,” she said, beaming with pride, and looking at the printed names as if they were flattering photographs. “I think ‘t was most too strong to say we was among the notables. But there! ’tis their business to dress up things, and they have to print somethin’ every day. I guess I shall go up and put on my best dress,” she added, inconsequently; “this one’s kind of dusty; it’s the same I rode in.”

“Le’ me see that paper again,” said Mr. Pinkham jealously. “I didn’t more ‘n half sense it, I was so taken aback. Well, Mary Ann, you didn’t expect you was goin’ to get into the papers when you came away. ‘ Abel Pinkham, Esquire, of Wetherford, Vermont.‘ It looks well, don’t it? But you might have knocked me down with a feather when I first caught sight of them words.”