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THE BLACK LION INN

By Alfred Henry Lewis

Illustrated By Frederic Remington

New York: R. H. Russell

1903


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CHAPTER I.--HOW I CAME TO THE INN.

Years ago, I came upon an old and hoary tavern when I as a fashion of
refugee was flying from strong drink. Its name, as shown on the creaking
sign-board, was The Black Lion Inn. My coming was the fruit of no plan;
the hostelry was strange to me, and my arrival, casual and desultory,
one of those accidents which belong with the experiences of folk who,
whipped of a bad appetite and running from rum, are seeking only to be
solitary and win a vacation for their selfrespect. This latter commodity
in my own poor case had been sadly overworked, and called for rest and
an opportunity of recuperation. Wherefore, going quietly and without
word from the great city, I found this ancient inn with a purpose to
turn presently sober. Also by remaining secluded for a space I would
permit the memory of those recent dubious exploits of the cup to become
a bit dimmed in the bosom of my discouraged relatives.

It turned a most fortunate blunder, this blundering discovery of the
aged inn, for it was here I met the Jolly Doctor who, by saving me from
my fate of a drunkard, a fate to which I was hopelessly surrendered,
will dwell ever in my thoughts as a greatest benefactor.

There is that about an appetite for alcohol I can not understand. In my
personal instance there is reason to believe it was inherited. And yet
my own father never touched a drop and lived and died the uncompromising
enemy of the bowl. It was from my grandsire, doubtless, I had any
hankering after rum, for I have heard a sigh or two of how that dashing
military gentleman so devoted himself to it that he fairly perished for
very faithfulness as far away as eighty odd long years.

Once when my father and I were roaming the snow-filled woods with our
guns--I was a lad of twelve--having heard little of that ancestor, I
asked him what malady carried off my grandsire. My father did not reply
at once, but stalked silently ahead, rifle caught under arm, the snow
crunching beneath his heavy boots. Then he flung a sentence over his
shoulder.

“Poor whiskey more than anything else,” said my father.

Even at the unripe age of twelve I could tell how the subject was
unpleasant to my parent and did not press it. I saved my curiosity until
evening when my mother and I were alone. My mother, to whom I re-put the
query, informed me in whispers how she had been told--for she never met
him, he being dead and gone before her day--my grandsire threw