"Well now," says he of the whip, "It 'pears like you don't know nothing of these parts. Why, that's Paschal Fish's, where we puts up."
"How far is it from this?"
"0, a mile and a bit or so."
We never knew how long the "mile" measured; but the "bit" was a dangerous extension of time, prostration of our tired nerves, and a stripping to shreds of our pretty-well-worn patience.
The driver tried to beguile the way by telling us about Paschal Fish, an Indian of the Shawnee tribe, and of power among them. A very honest man, don't drink a drop of whiskey, has a corn-field of a hundred acres, and thirty acres -of oats; keeps a little store, and employs New England men to make the sales; turns his house into a sort of a tavern, and employs a Yankee to cook for his company.
Paschal sits with his hat on, in a ruminating mood, the most of the time—welcomes New England people—says, "We saw the cloud in the east, one, two, three summers ago, and now it is beginning to come upon us." Here ends the driver's prattle. We are at the door of this new hotel.
