Mother decided that our restaurant should remain open atnight. At ten in the evening a passenger train went north pastour door followed by a local freight. The freight crew hadswitching to do in Pickleville and when the work was donethey came to our restaurant for hot coffee and food. Sometimesone of them ordered a fried egg. In the morning at four theyreturned north-bound and again visited us. A little trade beganto grow up. Mother slept at night and during the day tendedthe restaurant and fed our boarders while father slept. He sleptin the same bed mother had occupied during the night and Iwent off to the town of Bidwell and to school. During the longnights， while mother and I slept， father cooked meats that wereto go into sandwiches for the lunch baskets of our boarders.
Then an idea in regard to getting up in the world came into hishead. The American spirit took hold of him. He also becameambitious.
In the long nights when there was little to do father hadtime to think. That was his undoing. He decided that he hadin the past been an unsuccessful man because he had notbeen cheerful enough and that in the future he would adopt acheerful outlook on life. In the early morning he came upstairsand got into bed with mother. She woke and the two talked.
From my bed in the corner I listened.
It was father’s idea that both he and mother should tryto entertain the people who came to eat at our restaurant. Icannot now remember his words， but he gave the impressionof one about to become in some obscure way a kind of publicentertainer. When people， particularly young people fromthe town of Bidwell， came into our place， as on very rareoccasions they did， bright entertaining conversation was to bemade. From father’s words I gathered that something of thejolly inn- keeper effect was to be sought. Mother must havebeen doubtful from the first， but she said nothing discouraging.
It was father’s notion that a passion for the company ofhimself and mother would spring up in the breasts of theyounger people of the town of Bidwell. In the evening brighthappy groups would come singing down Turner’s Pike. Theywould troop shouting with joy and laughter into our place.
There would be song and festivity. I do not mean to give theimpression that father spoke so elaborately of the matter. Hewas as I have said an uncommunicative man. “They want someplace to go. I tell you they want some place to go，” he saidover and over. That was as far as he got. My own imaginationhas filled in the blanks.
For two or three weeks this notion of father’s invadedour house. We did not talk much， but in our daily lives triedearnestly to make smiles take the place of glum looks. Mothersmiled at the boarders and I， catching the infection， smiledat our cat. Father became a little feverish in his anxiety toplease. There was no doubt， lurking somewhere in him， atouch of the spirit of the showman. He did not waste muchof his ammunition on the railroad men he served at night butseemed to be waiting for a young man or woman from Bidwellto come in to show what he could do. On the counter in therestaurant there was a wire basket kept always filled with eggs，and it must have been before his eyes when the idea of beingentertaining was born in his brain. There was something prenatalabout the way eggs kept themselves connected with thedevelopment of his idea. At any rate an egg ruined his newimpulse in life. Late one night I was awakened by a roar ofanger coming from father’s throat. Both mother and I satupright in our beds. With trembling hands she lighted a lampthat stood on a table by her head. Downstairs the front doorof our restaurant went shut with a bang and in a few minutesfather tramped up the stairs. He held an egg in his hand andhis hand trembled as though he were having a chill. There wasa half insane light in his eyes. As he stood glaring at us I wassure he intended throwing the egg at either mother or me. Thenhe laid it gently on the table beside the lamp and dropped onhis knees beside mother’s bed. He began to cry like a boy and I，carried away by his grief， cried with him. The two of us filledthe little upstairs room with our wailing voices. It is ridiculous，but of the picture we made I can remember only the fact thatmother’s hand continually stroked the bald path that ran acrossthe top of his head. I have forgotten what mother said to himand how she induced him to tell her of what had happeneddownstairs. His explanation also has gone out of my mind.
I remember only my own grief and fright and the shiny pathover father’s head glowing in the lamp light as he knelt by thebed.
As to what happened downstairs. For some unexplainablereason I know the story as well as though I had been a witnessto my father’s discomfiture. One in time gets to know manyunexplainable things. On that evening young Joe Kane， son ofa merchant of Bidwell， came to Pickleville to meet his father，who was expected on the ten o’clock evening train from theSouth. The train was three hours late and Joe came into ourplace to loaf about and to wait for its arrival. The local freighttrain came in and the freight crew were fed. Joe was left alonein the restaurant with father.
From the moment he came into our place the Bidwell youngman must have been puzzled by my father’s actions. It washis notion that father was angry at him for hanging around. Henoticed that the restaurant keeper was apparently disturbed byhis presence and he thought of going out. However， it began torain and he did not fancy the long walk to town and back. Hebought a five-cent cigar and ordered a cup of coffee. He had anewspaper in his pocket and took it out and began to read. “I’mwaiting for the evening train. It’s late，” he said apologetically.
For a long time father， whom Joe Kane had never seenbefore， remained silently gazing at his visitor. He was no doubtsuffering from an attack of stage fright. As so often happensin life he had thought so much and so often of the situationthat now confronted him that he was somewhat nervous in itspresence.
