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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Amateur Inn," Albert Payson Terhune presents a delightful exploration of rural life infused with the charm of human interaction and nature's splendor. The novel is set against the backdrop of a quaint inn that serves as a meeting point for an array of characters, each imbued with their own desires and dilemmas. Terhune's literary style is marked by vivid descriptions and a keen attention to the subtleties of human behavior, reflecting the author's deep appreciation for the natural world and the intricate dynamics of community life, inviting readers to engage fully with his henpecked yet profound narrative. Terhune, an American author and dog breeder, was known for his affinity for loyal canine companions, a theme that often weaves through his works. His experiences in the idyllic settings of New Jersey, where he cultivated his love for both writing and nature, certainly influenced the warm, pastoral ambiance captured in "The Amateur Inn." As a reclusive observer of social interactions, Terhune skillfully draws upon his realities, transforming them into rich, relatable storytelling. This book is highly recommended for readers who cherish the simplicity of life's pleasures and the complexities of human relationships. Terhune's unique blend of humor and introspection provides a refreshing perspective on the nuances of hospitality and companionship, making "The Amateur Inn" a gratifying read for anyone seeking warmth and solace in literature. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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The Amateur Inn
Table of Contents
Introduction
Opening its doors on a venture fueled more by nerve than experience, The Amateur Inn turns hospitality into a crucible where ordinary people, thrust into roles for which they were never trained, must weigh generosity against caution, manage the frictions of chance encounters, and discover whether decency and ingenuity can withstand the pressures of secrecy, sudden peril, and the unpredictable dramas that arrive with every knock at the door in a world attuned to appearances and quick judgments.
Albert Payson Terhune, an American writer best known for his celebrated dog stories, also produced popular fiction that reached wide audiences in the early twentieth century. The Amateur Inn belongs to that era’s appetite for lively, accessible narratives that balance entertainment with clear moral stakes. Centered on the setting suggested by its title, the book confines much of its action to the social crossroads of an inn, where strangers meet and tensions mount. It offers a compact canvas well suited to tightly wound scenes, swift reversals, and the heightened interplay of wit, risk, and resourcefulness.
The premise is simple and fertile: an inn is managed by relative newcomers to the trade, and a sudden convergence of guests brings complications that quickly exceed ordinary lodging-house concerns. An unusual incident unsettles routines, and the amateur hosts must decide how far their responsibilities extend when appearances deceive and motives blur. Without straying into spoilers, it is enough to say that the story invites readers to watch capable but untested characters improvise under pressure, turning small decisions into pivotal ones as they navigate secrets, misunderstandings, and the delicate etiquette of sheltering strangers.
Readers can expect brisk pacing, clean scene construction, and a mood that slides between playful banter and contained suspense. The setting’s natural boundaries create a sense of pressure-cooker intimacy, where the timing of arrivals and departures matters as much as what is said in the parlor. Terhune’s straightforward prose keeps attention on action and dilemma rather than ornament, favoring momentum and clarity. The effect is a stage-like immediacy: rooms become arenas, thresholds become lines of risk, and everyday gestures—who welcomes whom, who lingers, who withdraws—carry outsized weight as the narrative tightens around its central tests.
Beneath its entertainment, the book probes themes that resonate beyond its plot machinery. Amateurism versus professionalism becomes a lens for exploring how people perform competence, earn trust, and learn on the fly. Hospitality, too, doubles as a moral question: what obligations do hosts owe when danger or deception enters with the paying guest? The story considers the costs of reputation—how quickly it can be imperiled, how carefully it must be defended—and it examines the uneasy border between public courtesy and private conviction, suggesting that character is revealed most clearly when expectations and reality collide.
Those concerns feel timely. In an age of do-it-yourself ventures and constant public scrutiny, The Amateur Inn speaks to the everyday courage of stepping into roles before credentials catch up. Its closed setting mirrors the bounded spaces many people inhabit—workplaces, households, online communities—where rumors travel fast, judgments harden quickly, and small choices reverberate. The narrative’s focus on practical ethics—who is responsible for whom, and to what extent—echoes contemporary debates about community care, customer service, and personal boundaries. It reassures, without sentimentality, that steadiness, tact, and clear thinking still matter when systems falter.
Approached as a period piece of popular fiction, the book promises a compact, engaging experience: light on ornament, rich in incident, and anchored by characters whose mettle is tested under watchful eyes. Readers who appreciate intimate settings, quick turns, and the interplay of humor and risk will find much to enjoy, while admirers of Terhune’s broader body of work may value seeing his instinct for narrative urgency applied to human, rather than canine, entanglements. This introduction invites you to meet the innkeepers at the moment nerve meets necessity—and to savor how decisiveness can turn amateurs into something more.
Synopsis
Set in the early motorcar era, The Amateur Inn follows a city-bred enthusiast who impulsively turns a quiet country house into a roadside hostelry. Seeking fresh purpose rather than profit, the new proprietor undertakes the venture with untested zeal, an improvised staff, and scant knowledge of cookery or management. The venture promises simple cheerful service to passing travelers. Yet from the outset, the inn attracts more than casual guests: its location on a busy highway, its novelty, and its open doors invite stories to intersect. The narrative begins with the acquisition, the refurbishing, and the first tentative evening of business.
Early chapters trace the steep learning curve of hospitality. Deliveries go astray, menus are improvised, and rooms must be readied at a moment’s notice. The proprietor’s good intentions lead to comic mistakes but also to quick recoveries and budding confidence. A capable helper from the neighborhood offers practical tips, while an elderly retainer guards traditions of the house. As reputations spread, a stream of motorists, salesmen, and weekenders arrive. The inn’s rhythm settles: breakfasts on the veranda, unexpected midnight knocks, and the delicate art of keeping strangers content without prying. Beneath these routines, faint crosscurrents begin to ripple through the guest list.
The narrative gradually clusters diverse travelers under one roof: an affable commercial drummer with a ready story, a reserved scholar, a stage performer between engagements, and an elegant woman traveling alone. Their movements seem ordinary, yet small anomalies accumulate. Requests for a particular room recur, a guest insists on using a seldom-open door, and a parcel addressed to the wrong person is quietly reclaimed. A motorcar circles twice before entering the drive. The innkeeper notes the patterns but keeps a professional calm, placing courtesy first. The sense grows that the inn serves as unwitting rendezvous for a business beyond mere lodging.
A misdirected telegram and a confused luggage tag sharpen the tension. Conversations cut short when others approach; two strangers appear to recognize one another while feigning ignorance. The proprietor, still an amateur, begins to act as observer and discreet arranger—adjusting table placements, watching for exchanged glances, and learning that timing is often the best tool. Without alarming the household, the innkeeper quietly secures spare keys and verifies identities where possible. The chapter sequence maintains a light tone, balancing the bustle of mealtimes with a gathering sense of design, as if a carefully scheduled meeting is drawing nearer.
Complications pile up. A staff member proves unreliable at a crucial hour, a lamp goes out in a corridor not known for drafts, and an unknown caller asks persistent questions about a guest who registered under an assumed city. A locked drawer shows signs of tampering. The amateur host consults a steady-minded local friend and weighs the risks of involving the law too soon. The goal is to protect all under the roof without provoking panic. Terraces, kitchens, and stair landings become vantage points, each offering brief glimpses of a larger plot that still eludes clear description.
A roadside mishap brings additional travelers and forces several parties to stay beyond their plans. Weather closes in, telephones falter, and departures are postponed. This enforced pause bottles everyone within reach of the dining room bell, turning ordinary service into quiet watchfulness. The innkeeper, recognizing trustworthy character, shares concerns with a practical ally, and together they arrange unobtrusive tests—changed seating, altered room assignments, and a scheduled errand that reveals who follows whom. Moments of camaraderie persist: shared coffee, borrowed books, and impromptu music. Yet the house feels like a stage set, with arrivals and cues converging toward an appointed scene.
Clues settle around a small, portable object of uncommon value and a borrowed identity meant to claim it. The inn, chosen for its privacy and respectability, is the planned exchange point. The protagonists adopt strategy rather than force: they stage a harmless confusion, swap two identical satchels, and invite particular guests to an innocuous gathering that rearranges who stands near whom. Footfalls on the back stairs, a sidelong glance at a mantel clock, and a door left ajar mark the near-miss moments. The point is not amateur bravado, but controlled delay—buying time until proof and protection coincide.
The turning moment arrives during an evening when stories must be told plainly. Without grand speeches, the innkeeper outlines enough of the pattern to unsettle masked intentions, while an expected visitor from outside quietly waits. Decisions are taken quickly. The threatened party is shielded, a reckless plan is abandoned, and consequences begin their measured course. The narrative refuses melodrama, favoring brisk moves, steady voices, and the inn’s guiding rule: every guest’s dignity preserved where possible. Morning brings relief and repairs, along with farewells that acknowledge what was risked without reciting details. The house resumes its avowed purpose—shelter and civility.
In the aftermath, The Amateur Inn affirms resourcefulness and the ethics of welcome. The venture begun for interest becomes a calling that steadies character. The tale blends light romance with gentle suspense, showing how attentive service can also be keen observation and quiet courage. It suggests that homes, even temporary ones, shape conduct: under a firm, kindly roof, schemes falter and loyalties clarify. The closing pages return to the practicalities—menus, linens, and accounts—tempered by experience and new companionship. The message is simple: ordinary people, acting honorably, can disrupt elaborate designs, and hospitality well practiced is both craft and safeguard.
Historical Context
Albert Payson Terhune's The Amateur Inn is set in the northeastern United States in the years just before and after 1914, in the commuter belt northwest of New York City where rural New Jersey met the metropolis. Country roads, trolley spurs, and the new macadamized highways brought urban weekenders into contact with small towns and farmsteads. The inn at the story's center belongs to this liminal landscape: not yet entirely modern, but no longer isolated. Terhune, who kept his home Sunnybank in northern New Jersey, drew on the social textures of that region, its mix of prosperous commuters, local tradespeople, and itinerant travelers, to frame a tale of enterprise, manners, and changing customs.
Automobiles and the Good Roads Movement reshaped the region between 1908 and 1916. Henry Ford's Model T appeared in 1908; the number of automobiles in the United States rose from about 8,000 in 1900 to roughly 468,000 in 1910 and over 9 million by 1920. Advocacy by the American Automobile Association (founded 1902) and cyclists had pushed for macadam and concrete surfaces; Congress passed the Federal Aid Road Act of 1916, committing $75 million in matching funds. The Lincoln Highway was dedicated in 1913 from New York to San Francisco. The book's roadside inn, catering to motorists and day trippers from New York, mirrors this surge in motor tourism, improvising garages, signage, and new notions of hospitality for a mobile middle class.
The Progressive Era provided the regulatory and civic backdrop. Nationally, the Pure Food and Drug Act and Meat Inspection Act of 1906 raised expectations for kitchens and dining rooms. In New Jersey, Governor Woodrow Wilson's 1911–1913 program strengthened public utility oversight, instituted direct primaries, and modernized administrative law. Local boards of health, sanitary inspections, and fire codes increasingly governed small businesses. The narrative setting reflects these pressures: an inn must obtain licenses, meet cleanliness standards, and answer to town committees, all under the watchful eye of reform-minded neighbors. The tone of civic improvement and uplift permeates the social interactions that structure the story's conflicts and alliances.
Temperance campaigns crested into national Prohibition, shaping the norms around lodging and dining. The Anti-Saloon League, founded in 1893, orchestrated local option victories through the 1910s. Congress proposed the Eighteenth Amendment on December 18, 1917; ratification was completed on January 16, 1919, and the Volstead Act of October 28, 1919 defined enforcement from 1920. New Jersey politics remained notably wet; Governor Edward I. Edwards, elected in 1919, ran on a personal liberty platform and resisted aggressive enforcement. Against this contentious backdrop, an inn's reputation hinged on its approach to drink, from discreet service to strict abstinence. The work's social comedy reflects the fine line proprietors walked between moral reformers, convivial guests, and the letter of the law.
Women's suffrage and changing gender roles mark another axis of transformation. Although New Jersey briefly allowed property-owning women to vote from 1776 to 1807, modern suffrage advanced through mass activism, notably the 1913 Washington parade organized by Alice Paul of Mount Laurel, New Jersey. A state referendum to enfranchise women failed in 1915; the Nineteenth Amendment passed Congress in 1919 and was ratified in 1920. The book's emphasis on competence, initiative, and public presence among its women characters mirrors this shift. Managing accounts, negotiating with officials, and asserting authority within the inn trace the everyday assertion of civic identity that the suffrage victory symbolized.
World War I altered rhythms of travel, labor, and supply. The United States entered the war on April 6, 1917; the Selective Service Act of May 18, 1917 registered over 24 million men. New Jersey hosted major installations, including Camp Dix (established July 1917, later Fort Dix) and the Picatinny Arsenal. Industrial mobilization brought shortages supervised by the U.S. Food Administration, which urged sugar conservation in 1917–1918; the Standard Time Act introduced daylight saving time in March 1918. Tragedy struck with the T. A. Gillespie Shell Loading Plant explosions at Morgan, New Jersey, October 4–10, 1918, disrupting rail and road traffic. The influenza pandemic of 1918–1919 closed public venues. The book's world registers these constraints in tightened supplies, patriotic fund drives, and the transient presence of soldiers and war workers among travelers.
Labor unrest and immigration fed social tension across the state and region. The Paterson silk strike of 1913 drew 20,000 to 25,000 workers into a months-long conflict led by the Industrial Workers of the World, with figures such as Big Bill Haywood and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn; the Pageant of the Paterson Strike was staged at Madison Square Garden on June 7, 1913. The Immigration Act of 1917 imposed literacy tests, and the Red Scare of 1919–1920 culminated in the Palmer Raids. In this climate, service businesses mediated class encounters daily. The inn's staff and guests embody divergent backgrounds and expectations, and their bargaining over wages, tips, and respectability echoes broader debates over labor, loyalty, and belonging.
As social or political critique, the book scrutinizes the etiquette and economics of an age in motion. It exposes the precariousness of small proprietors navigating new regulations, moral surveillance, and volatile markets, while affluent patrons treat countryside leisure as a right. By highlighting women's managerial authority and decision making, it quietly unsettles patriarchal assumptions without polemic. Ambivalence about alcohol policy and wartime conformity surfaces in the comedy of rules, rumors, and respectability. Above all, the work records the friction points of early twentieth century modernity, mobility, class display, civic reform, inviting readers to consider who pays the costs of progress and who is invited to enjoy its comforts.
The Amateur Inn
Chapter IA NON-SKIPPABLE PROLOGUE
OSMUN VAIL doesn’t come into this story at all. Yet he was responsible for everything that happened in it.
He was responsible for the whistling cry in the night, and for the Thing that huddled among the fragrant boxtrees, and for the love of a man and a maid—or rather the loves of several men and a maid—and for the amazing and amusing and jewel-tangled dilemma wherein Thaxton was shoved.
He was responsible for much; though he was actively to blame for nothing. Moreover he and his career were interesting.
So he merits a word or two, if only to explain what happened before the rise of our story’s curtain.
At this point, the boreful word, Prologue, should be writ large, with a space above and below it, by way of warning. But that would be the sign to skip. And one cannot skip this short prologue without losing completely the tangled thread of the yarn which follows—a thread worth gripping and a yarn more or less worth telling.
So let us dispose of the prologue, without calling it by its baleful name; and in a mere mouthful or two of words. Something like this:
When Osmun Vail left his father’s Berkshire farm, at twenty-one, to seek his fortune in New York, he wore his $12 “freedom suit[1]” and had a cash capital of $18, besides his railway ticket.
Followed forty years of brow-sweat and brain-wrack and one of those careers whose semi-occasional real-life recurrence keeps the Success magazines out of the pure-fiction class.
When Osmun Vail came back, at sixty-one, to the Berkshire farm that had been his father’s until the mortgage was foreclosed, he was worth something more than five million dollars. His life-battle had been fought and won.[1q] His tired soul yearned unspeakably for the peace and loveliness of the pleasant hill country where he had been born—the homeland he had half-forgotten and which had wholly forgotten him and his.
Osmun recalled the prim village of Stockbridge, the primmer town of Pittsfield, drowsing beneath South Mountain, the provincial scatter of old houses known as Lenox; the tumbled miles of mountain wilderness and the waste of lush farmland between and around them.
At sixty-one he found Pittsfield a new city; and saw a Lenox and Stockbridge that had been discovered and renovated by beauty-lovers from the distant outside world. All that region was still in the youth of its golden development. But the wave had set in, and had set in strong.
A bit dazzled and more than a little troubled by the transformation, Osmun Vail sought the farm of his birth and the nearby village of Aura. Here at least nothing had changed; except that his father’s house—built by his grandfather’s own gnarled hands—had burned down; taking the rattle-trap red barns with it. The whole hilltop farm lay weedgrown, rank, desolate. In the abomination of desolation, a deserted New England farm can make Pompeii look like a hustling metropolis. There is something awesome in its new deadness.
Cold fingers seemed to catch Osmun by the throat and by the heartstrings; as he stared wistfully from the house’s site, to the neglected acres his grandsire had cleared and his sire had loved. From the half-memory of a schoolday poem, the returned wanderer quoted chokingly:
“Here will I pitch my tent. Here will I end my days.”
Then on the same principle of efficient promptitude which had lifted him from store-porter to a bank presidency, Osmun Vail proceeded to realize a dream he had fostered through the bleakly busy decades of his exile.
For a ridiculously low price he bought back and demortgaged the farm and the five hundred acres that bordered it. He turned loose a horde of landscape artists upon the domain. He sent overseas for two renowned British architects, and bade them build him a house on the hilltop that should be a glorious monument to his own success and to his father’s memory. To Boston and to New York he sent, for a legion of skilled laborers. And the estate of Vailholme was under way.
Fashion, wealth, modernity, had skirted this stretch of rolling valley to northeast of Stockbridge and to south of Lenox. The straggly one-street village of Aura drowsed beneath its giant elms; as it had drowsed since a quarter-century after the Pequot wars. The splashing invasion of this moneyed New Yorker created more neighborhood excitement than would the visit of a Martian to Brooklyn.
Excitement and native hostility to outsiders narrowed down to a very keen and very personal hatred of Osmun Vail; when it was learned that all his skilled labor and all his building material had been imported from points beyond the soft green mountain walls which hedge Aura Valley.
Now there was not a soul in the Valley capable of building any edifice more imposing or imaginative than a two-story frame house. There was no finished material in the Valley worth working into the structure of such a mansion as Osmun proposed. But this made no difference. An outlander had come back to crow over his poor stay-at-home neighbors, and he was spending his money on outside help and goods, to the detriment of the natives. That was quite enough. The tide of icy New England hate swelled from end to end of the Valley; and it refused to ebb.
These Aura folk were Americans of Puritan stock—a race to whom sabotage and arson are foreign. Thus they did not seek to destroy or even to hamper the work at Vailholme. But their aloofness was made as bitter and blighting as a Bible prophet’s curse. For example:
When his great house was but half built, Osmun ran up from New York, one gray January Saturday afternoon, to inspect the job. This he did every few weeks. And, on his tours, he made headquarters at Plum’s, in Stockbridge, six miles away. This was an ancient and honorable hostelry which some newfangled folk were even then beginning to call “The Red Lion Inn,” and whose food was one of Life’s Compensations. Thence, on a livery nag, Vail was wont to ride out to his estate.
On this January trip Osmun found that Plum’s had closed, at Christmas, for the season. He drove on to Aura, only to find the village’s one inn was shut for repairs. Planning to continue his quest of lodgings as far as Lenox or, if necessary, to Pittsfield, Osmun went up, through a snowstorm, to his uncompleted hilltop mansion of Vailholme.
He had brought along a lunch, annexed from the Stockbridge bakery. So interested did he become in wandering from one unceilinged room to another, and furnishing and refurnishing them in his mind, that he did not notice the steady increase of the snowfall and of the wind which whipped it into fury.
By the time he went around to the shed, at the rear of the house, where he had stabled the livery horse, he could scarce see his hand before his face. The gale was hurling the tons of snow from end to end of the Valley, in solid masses. There was no question of holding the road or even of finding it. The horse knew that—and he snorted, and jerked back on the bit when Osmun essayed to lead him from shelter.
Every minute, the blizzard increased.
The corps of indoor laborers and their bosses had gone to their Pittsfield quarters, for Sunday. Osmun had the deserted place to himself. Swathed in his greatcoat and in a mountain of burlap, and burrowing into a bed of torn papers and paint-blotched wall-cloths, he made shift to pass a right miserable night.
By dawn the snowfall had ceased. But so had the Valley’s means of entrance and of exit. The two roads leading from it to the outer world were choked breast high with solid drifts. For at least three days there could be no ingress or egress. Aura bore this isolation, philosophically. To be snowbound and cut off from the rest of the universe was no novelty to the Valley hamlet. Osmun bore it less calmly.
By dint of much skill and more persuasion, he piloted his floundering horse down the hill and into the village. There, at the first house, he demanded food and shelter. He received neither. Neither the offer of much money nor an appeal to common humanity availed. It took him less than an hour to discover that Aura was unanimous in its mode of paying him back for his slight to its laborers. Not a house would take him in. Not a villager would sell him a meal or so much as feed his horse.
Raging impotently, Osmun rode back to his frigid and draughty hilltop mansion-shell. By the time he had been shivering there for an hour a thin little man stumped up the steps.
The newcomer introduced himself as Malcolm Creede. He had stopped for a few minutes in Aura, that morning, for provisions, and had heard the gleeful accounts of the villagers as to their treatment of the stuck-up millionaire. Wherefore, Creede had climbed the hill, in order to offer the scanty hospitality of his own farmhouse to Osmun, until such time as the roads from the Valley should be open.
Osmun greeted the offer with a delight born of chill and starvation. Leading his horse, he followed Creede across a trackless half-mile or so to a farm that nestled barrenly in a cup of the hills. During the plungingly arduous walk he learned something of his host.
Creede was a Scotchman, who had begun life as a schoolmaster; and who had come to America, with his invalid wife, to better his fortunes. A final twist of fate had stranded the couple on this Berkshire farm. Here, six months earlier, the wife had died, leaving her heart-crushed husband with twin sons a few months old. Here, ever since, the widower had eked out a pitifully bare living; and had cared, as best he might, for his helpless baby boys. His meager homestead, by the way, had gleefully been named by luckier and more witty neighbors, “Rackrent Farm.” The name had stuck.
Before the end of Osmun Vail’s enforced stay at Rackrent Farm, gratitude to his host had merged into genuine friendship. The two lonely men took to each other, as only solitaries with similar tastes can hope to. Osmun guessed, though Creede denied it, that the Good Samaritan deed of shelter must rouse neighborhood animosity against the Scotchman.
Osmun guessed, and with equal correctness, that this silent and broken Scot would be bitterly offended at any offer of money payment for his hospitality. And Vail set his own ingenuity to work for means of rewarding the kindness.
As a result, within six months Malcolm Creede was installed as manager (“factor,” Creede called it) of the huge new Berkshire estate of Vailholme and was supervising work on a big new house built for him by Osmun in a corner of the estate.
Creede was woefully ignorant of business matters. Coming into a small inheritance from a Scotch uncle, he turned the pittance over to Vail for investment. And he was merely delighted—in no way suspicious—when the investments brought him in an income of preposterous size. Osmun Vail never did things by halves.
Deeply grateful, Creede threw his energy and boundless enthusiasm into his new duties. He went further. One of his twin sons he christened “Clive” for the inheritance-leaving uncle in Scotland. But the other he named “Osmun,” in honor of his benefactor. Vail, much gratified at the compliment, insisted on taking over the education of both lads. The childless bachelor reveled in his rôle of fairy godfather to them.
But there was another result of Osmun Vail’s chilly vigil in the half-finished hilltop mansion. During the hour before Creede had come to his rescue the cold and hungry multimillionaire had taken a vow as solemn as it was fantastic.
He swore he would set aside not less than ten of his house’s forty-three rooms for the use of any possible wayfarers who might be stranded, as he had been, in that inhospitable wilderness, and who could afford to pay for decent accommodations. Not tramps or beggars, but folk who, like himself, might come that way with means for buying food and shelter, and to whom such food and shelter might elsewhere be denied.
This oath he talked over with Creede. The visionary Scot could see nothing ridiculous about it. Accordingly, ten good rooms were allotted mentally to paying guests, and a clause in Vail’s will demanded that his heirs maintain such rooms, if necessary, for the same purpose. The fact was not advertised. And during Osmun’s quarter-century occupancy of Vailholme nobody took advantage of the chance.
