 | Eli Perkins (at large) |  |
ELI PERKINS BLUNDERS.
Riding up to the village hotel in
Courtland, where I was to lecture during
the Greeley campaign, I saw the big,
smart landlord smoking a short pipe on
the balcony, while his wife was sweeping
around his chair.
“Hallo! Do you keep this hotel?” I
asked.
“No, sir, I reckon not; this tavern keeps me.”
“I mean, are you master here?”
“Waal, sometimes I am (looking at the old lady's
take your hoss?”
“Do you support Grant?” I asked.
“No.”
“What! support Greeley?”
“No, s-i-r.”
“Thunder, man! You don't support George Francis
Train or Mrs. Woodhull, do you?”
“No, sir-r-r-ee! Look he-er, stranger, I don't support
nobody but my wife Abby an' the chil'n. It's
hard 'nough to git suthin for the chil'n to eat, without
supportin' Greeley an' Grant an' such other darn
fool women as Mrs. Woodhull, when taters ain't worth
only twenty cents a bushel an' we have to give away
our apples.”
After the delivery of this, I kept still a few moments
but soon ventured to continue:
“Got anything to drink 'round here, my friend?”
“Yes, everything drinks around here.”
“Any ales?” I mean.
“Touch of the rheumatiz myself—folks generally
healthy, though.”
“I mean, have you got any porter?”
“Yes, John's our porter. Hold his horse, John.”
“I mean, any porter to drink?”
“Porter to drink? Why, John can drink, an' ef he
can't drink enough, I kin whip a right smart o' licker
myself.”
“Pshaw—stupid! Have I got to come down and
see myself?”
“Yeu kin come down, Shaw Stupid, and see yourself
| Eli Perkins (at large) | |