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Updated: June 27, 2025
"You're dead wrong. I'm no villager. My instincts are all in the other direction away from the crowd. I live up near the top of Baldpate, in a little shack I built myself. My name's Peters Jake Peters in the winter. But in the summer, when the inn's open, and the red and white awnings are out, and the band plays in the casino every night then I'm the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain.
The epicentre appears to have been that part of the metropolis which constitutes the Inn's Quay ward and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone acres, two roods and one square pole or perch.
Indeed, to be able to see the thing smartly was an entry into community with the elect of the district; and when the roaring ceased and the thing was examined, astonishment at the cleverness of it, and the wonderful shallowness of the seeming deep hole, and the unexhausted bang it had to go off like a patent cracker, fetched it out for telling over again; and up went the roar, and up it went at home and in stable-yards, and at the net puffing of churchwardens on a summer's bench, or in a cricket-booth after a feast, or round the old inn's taproom fine.
True, the doorway may be blocked up with a wardrobe; yet behind it, in all probability, there will be standing a silent, motionless neighbour whose ears are burning to learn every possible detail concerning the latest arrival. The inn's exterior corresponded with its interior.
At seven in the evening we went to bed in the second story with our clothes on, as usual, and all three in the same bed, for every available space on the floors, chairs, etc., was in request, and even then there was barely room for the housing of the inn's guests.
The Annes went off at eight, morning. After breakfast I drove down to Melrose and waited on Mrs. and Miss Dempster, and engaged them for Saturday. Weather bitter cold; yea, atrociously so. Naboclish the better for work. Ladies whose husbands love fox-hunting are in a poor way. Here are two pleasant and pretty women pegged up the whole day "In the worst inn's worst room"
And it is not till dinner is on the table, and the inn's best wine goes round from glass to glass, that we begin to throw off the restraint and fuse once more into a jolly fellowship. Half the party are to return to-night with the wagonette; and some of the others, loath to break up company, will go with them a bit of the way and drink a stirrup-cup at Marlotte.
The new inn's yours, and no other's, and Gilbert is your own too, and no other's but Mabel's for life. And is not there joy enough for you, mother? Widow. Joy! Oh, too much! Owen. I've been too sudden for her! Widow. No, dear not a bit, only just give me time to feel it. And is it true? And am I in no dream now? And where's Mabel, dear? Owen. Gone to the well, and Gilbert with her.
We spent the evening cosily in the stately inn's best room, with its white curtains, polished floor, and beds of sumptuous linen. The great clipper-plows were out early in the morning, to cut a path through the drifts of the storm, but it was nearly noon before the road was sufficiently cleared to enable us to travel.
"You got to blurry well shift," he said. "See?" "Shift!" said Mr. Polly. "How?" "'Cos the Potwell Inn's my beat. See?" Mr. Polly had never felt less witty. "How's it your beat?" he asked. Uncle Jim thrust his face forward and shook his open hand, bent like a claw, under Mr. Polly's nose. "Not your blooming business," he said. "You got to shift." "S'pose I don't," said Mr. Polly.
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