Some might have thought him
melancholy, for his manner was of the gravest.
We were speaking of hotels, that stormy afternoon when the distant
surf was moaning and the wind heaping the snow against the doors, and
when the clock had struck, he said slowly:
"I kept a hotel once. It was in '72 or a bit before. It's a good
trade."
And none of us disputed it was a good trade, as keeping a man
indoors in stormy weather.
"Was it like Pemberton's?"
"No, not like Pemberton's."
"Seaside?"
"No, inland a bit."
"Summer hotel?"
"Aye, summer hotel. Always summer there."
"It must have paid!"
"Aye, she paid. It was in South America."
"South America?"
"Aye, Stevey Todd and I ran her. She was put up in New Bedford by
Smith and Morgan, and Stevey Todd and I ran her in South America."
"How so? Do they export hotels to South America?"
"There ain't any steady trade in 'em." And no more would he say just
then. For he was that kind of a man, Captain Tom, He would talk or he
would not, as suited him.
Uncle Abimelech was tall and old, and had a long white beard, and
was thin in the legs, not to say uncertain on them, and he appeared
to wander in his mind as well as in his legs.
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