against the walls. Even in the dim, grim light shed by the lantern he
could see that the building was of an age far beyond the ken of any
living man. He recalled the words of the informing sign-post:
"Established in 1798." One hundred and eighteen years old, and still
baffling the assaults of all the elements in a region where they were
never timid!

It may, in all truth, be a "shindy," thought he, but it had led a
gallant life.

The broad, thick weather-boarding, overlapping in layers, was brown
with age and smooth with the polishing of time and the backs, no
doubt, of countless loiterers who had come and gone in the making of
the narrative that Hart's Tavern could relate. The porch itself, while
old, was comparatively modern; it did not belong to the century in
which the inn itself was built, for in those far-off days men did not
waste time, timber or thought on the unnecessary. While the planks in
the floor were worn and the uprights battered and whittled out of
their pristine shapeliness, they were but grandchildren to the parent
building to which they clung. Stout and, beyond question, venerable
benches stood close to the wall on both sides of the entrance.
Directly over the broad, low door with its big wooden latch and bar,
was the word "Welcome," rudely carved in the oak beam. It required no
cultured eye to see that the letters had been cut, deep and strong,
into the timber, not with the tool of the skilled wood carver but with
the hunting knife of an ambitious pioneer.

A shocking incongruity marred the whole effect. Suspended at the side
of this hundred-year-old doorway was a black and gold, shield-shaped
ornament of no inconsiderable dimensions informing the observer that a