A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court - Mark Twain (speld decodable readers TXT) 📗

“You must allow me to have these friends come; and you must also allow me to pay the costs.”

His face cleared, and he said with spirit:

“But not all of it, not all of it. Ye cannot well bear a burden like to this alone.”

I stopped him, and said:

“Now let’s understand each other on the spot, old friend. I am only a farm bailiff, it is true; but I am not poor, nevertheless. I have been very fortunate this year⁠—you would be astonished to know how I have thriven. I tell you the honest truth when I say I could squander away as many as a dozen feasts like this and never care that for the expense!” and I snapped my fingers. I could see myself rise a foot at a time in Marco’s estimation, and when I fetched out those last words I was become a very tower for style and altitude. “So you see, you must let me have my way. You can’t contribute a cent to this orgy, that’s settled.”

“It’s grand and good of you⁠—”

“No, it isn’t. You’ve opened your house to Jones and me in the most generous way; Jones was remarking upon it today, just before you came back from the village; for although he wouldn’t be likely to say such a thing to you⁠—because Jones isn’t a talker, and is diffident in society⁠—he has a good heart and a grateful, and knows how to appreciate it when he is well treated; yes, you and your wife have been very hospitable toward us⁠—”

“Ah, brother, ’tis nothing⁠—such hospitality!”

“But it is something; the best a man has, freely given, is always something, and is as good as a prince can do, and ranks right along beside it⁠—for even a prince can but do his best. And so we’ll shop around and get up this layout now, and don’t you worry about the expense. I’m one of the worst spendthrifts that ever was born. Why, do you know, sometimes in a single week I spend⁠—but never mind about that⁠—you’d never believe it anyway.”

And so we went gadding along, dropping in here and there, pricing things, and gossiping with the shopkeepers about the riot, and now and then running across pathetic reminders of it, in the persons of shunned and tearful and houseless remnants of families whose homes had been taken from them and their parents butchered or hanged. The raiment of Marco and his wife was of coarse tow-linen and linsey-woolsey respectively, and resembled township maps, it being made up pretty exclusively of patches which had been added, township by township, in the course of five or six years, until hardly a hand’s-breadth of the original garments was surviving and present. Now I wanted to fit these people out with new suits, on account of that swell company, and I didn’t know just how to get at it⁠—with delicacy, until at last it struck me that as I had already been liberal in inventing wordy gratitude for the king, it would be just the thing to back it up with evidence of a substantial sort; so I said:

“And Marco, there’s another thing which you must permit⁠—out of kindness for Jones⁠—because you wouldn’t want to offend him. He was very anxious to testify his appreciation in some way, but he is so diffident he couldn’t venture it himself, and so he begged me to buy some little things and give them to you and Dame Phyllis and let him pay for them without your ever knowing they came from him⁠—you know how a delicate person feels about that sort of thing⁠—and so I said I would, and we would keep mum. Well, his idea was, a new outfit of clothes for you both⁠—”

“Oh, it is wastefulness! It may not be, brother, it may not be. Consider the vastness of the sum⁠—”

“Hang the vastness of the sum! Try to keep quiet for a moment, and see how it would seem; a body can’t get in a word edgeways, you talk so much. You ought to cure that, Marco; it isn’t good form, you know, and it will grow on you if you don’t check it. Yes, we’ll step in here now and price this man’s stuff⁠—and don’t forget to remember to not let on to Jones that you know he had anything to do with it. You can’t think how curiously sensitive and proud he is. He’s a farmer⁠—pretty fairly well-to-do farmer⁠—and I’m his bailiff; but⁠—the imagination of that man! Why, sometimes when he forgets himself and gets to blowing off, you’d think he was one of the swells of the earth; and you might listen to him a hundred years and never take him for a farmer⁠—especially if he talked agriculture. He thinks he’s a Sheol of a farmer; thinks he’s old Grayback from Wayback; but between you and me privately he don’t know as much about farming as he does about running a kingdom⁠—still, whatever he talks about, you want to drop your underjaw and listen, the same as if you had never heard such incredible wisdom in all your life before, and were afraid you might die before you got enough of it. That will please Jones.”

It tickled Marco to the marrow to hear about such an odd character; but it also prepared him for accidents; and in my experience when you travel with a king who is letting on to be something else and can’t remember it more than about half the time, you can’t take too many precautions.

This was the best store we had come across yet; it had everything in it, in small quantities, from anvils and drygoods all the way down to fish and pinchbeck jewelry. I concluded I would bunch my whole invoice right here, and not go pricing around any more. So I got rid of Marco, by sending him off to invite the mason and the wheelwright, which