Strange Yesterday Read Online Free PDF

the horn that hangs at the cab’s side?”
    Old Peter answered: “Yes, you are right—although how you should know these things so surely is more than I can understand.”
    â€œI know of them because I see it all in your face as you walk about. Peter, you are a thrifty person; you must have saved, if only a little, in the twenty years you have had charge of the inn of the Steer’s Horn?”
    â€œYes, I have saved,” old Peter told him. “A little I have saved for myself. More I have saved for you.”
    â€œAnd how much, if I should ask, is there for me?—and how much for yourself?”
    â€œIn your name, there is almost two thousand dollars—in good money. For myself there is a little less than half of that.”
    â€œAnd how much would you say the house is worth, with the land about belonging to it, with the large coach, the chaise, the two work horses, and the two fillies?”
    Leaning back, old Peter closed his eyes and calculated. “Surely,” said he, “the value of the house is eight thousand dollars.” Much more, thought John Preswick. “And the fields are worth at least fifteen hundred more. The coach is old and hung in leather, but you could not buy a better one for less than five hundred dollars. The chaise is good for almost half of that. Now, the price of horses has gone down, but they should bring at least sixty dollars apiece.”
    â€œAnd there are the two plows, the hay rick, the mud cart, and the sledge.”
    â€œA few hundred for the lot. They are old. But to what end is all this, since you will not sell what has been your grandfather’s and his father’s?”
    â€œI have often thought of the matter, Peter, and now I am quite decided. Let us tally the thing.”
    He summed up: “Eight thousand for the house, and a thousand and a half more for the fields, and five hundred dollars for the coach bring it to ten thousand. Odds and ends make it eleven thousand—conservatively estimated. I have no doubt that it is worth far more, but that is neither here nor there.” It was almost laughable, this manner of burning bridges. “Your money and mine taken together, we have three thousand dollars. For that I will write you out a deed to the property. It is yours.”
    But the old man could not grasp the insanity he suggested. Bending forward, he stared at John Preswick with wide-open eyes. He shook his head, looking at the young man doubtfully.
    â€œYes,” John Preswick said impatiently, “it is a gift; it is for what you have done; it is only fitting that you should be rewarded.”
    â€œBut you could sell it for so much more than three thousand dollars,” old Peter protested in bewilderment. “Perhaps you could not dispose of all at the full price, but nevertheless you would at least realize many times the thousand dollars of mine. An inn is not only property; it is a business, a way of life, even if it is off the main road and caters to so few people as we do.”
    Thrusting him aside, John Preswick declared: “That is nonsense. I do not want money. I am giving it to you, and you have no choice but to take it.”
    â€œHow can I? It would be taking from you what I have sworn to preserve for you. I am an old man, and childless.”
    â€œIt is mine, and I am signing it over to you. That is all. You may go.” He was harsh, commanding, his lips a suddenly bitter line. Very rarely had the old man seen him thus, and he was afraid of him. Something dark burnt through his blond skin.
    He sat there until Peter was gone; and after that he sat there, while the sun crept away to the west, losing itself in streamers of spun wool cloud that made of the horizon a long and lovely woof. As he sat there, he thought to himself that he had won, but the thought was not without a quality of fear. All security he was throwing off, and, aimlessly, he was casting himself adrift. Impulsively