“Wa’al, guess we c’n give ye a room. Oh, yes, you c’n register if you want to. Where is the dum thing? I seen it last week somewhere. Oh, yes,” producing a thin book ruled for accounts from under the counter, “we don’t alwus use it,” he remarked—which was obvious, seeing that the last entry was a month old.
John concluded that it was a useless formality. “I should like something to eat,” he said, “and desire to go to my room while it is being prepared; and can you send my luggage up now?”
“Wa’al,” said Mr. Elright, looking at the clock, which showed the hour of half-past nine, and rubbing his chin perplexedly, “supper’s ben cleared off some time ago.”
“I don’t want very much,” said John; “just a bit of steak, and some stewed potatoes, and a couple of boiled eggs, and some coffee.” He might have heard the sound of a slap in the direction of one of the sitters.
“I’m ’fraid I can’t ’commodate ye fur’s the steak an’ things goes,” confessed the landlord. “We don’t do much cookin’ after dinner, an’ I reckon the fire’s out anyway. P’r’aps,” he added doubtfully, “I c’d hunt ye up a piece o’ pie ’n some doughnuts, or somethin’ like that.”
He took a key, to which was attached a huge brass tag with serrated edges, from a hook on a board behind the bar—on which were suspended a number of the like—lighted a small kerosene lamp, carrying a single wick, and, shuffling out from behind the counter, said, “Say, Bill, can’t you an’ Dick carry the gentleman’s trunks up to ‘thirteen?’ ” and, as they assented, he gave the lamp and key to one of them and left the room. The two men took a trunk at either end and mounted the stairs, John following, and when the second one came up he put his fingers into his waistcoat pocket suggestively.
“No,” said the one addressed as Dick, “that’s all right. We done it to oblige Ame.”
“I’m very much obliged to you, though,” said John.
“Oh, that’s all right,” remarked Dick as they turned away.
John surveyed the apartment. There were two small-paned windows overlooking the street, curtained with bright “Turkey-red” cotton; near to one of them a small wood stove and a wood box, containing some odds and ends of sticks and bits of bark; a small chest of drawers, serving as a washstand; a malicious little looking-glass; a basin and ewer, holding about two quarts; an earthenware mug and soap-dish, the latter containing a thin bit of red translucent soap scented with sassafras; an ordinary wooden chair and a rocking-chair with rockers of divergent aims; a yellow wooden bedstead furnished with a mattress of “excelsior” (calculated to induce early rising), a dingy white spread, a gray blanket of coarse wool, a pair of cotton sheets which had too obviously done duty since passing through the hands of the laundress, and a pair of flabby little pillows in the same state, in respect to their cases, as the sheets. On the floor was a much used and faded ingrain carpet, in one place worn through by the edge of a loose board. A narrow strip of unpainted pine nailed to the wall carried six or seven wooden pegs to serve as wardrobe. Two diminutive towels with red borders hung on the rail of the washstand, and a battered tin slop jar, minus a cover, completed the inventory.
“Heavens, what a hole!” exclaimed John, and as he performed his ablutions (not with the sassafras soap) he promised himself a speedy flitting. There came a knock at the door, and his host appeared to announce that his “tea” was ready, and to conduct him to the dining-room—a good-sized apartment, but narrow, with a long table running near the center lengthwise, covered with a cloth which bore the marks of many a fray. Another table of like dimensions, but bare, was shoved up against the wall. Mr. Elright’s ravagement of the larder had resulted in a triangle of cadaverous apple pie, three doughnuts, some chunks of soft white cheese, and a plate of what are known as oyster crackers.
“I couldn’t git ye no tea,” he said. “The hired girls both gone out, an’ my wife’s gone to bed, an’ the’ wa’n’t no fire anyway.”
“I suppose I could have some beer,” suggested John, looking dubiously at the banquet.
“We don’t keep no ale,” said the proprietor of the Eagle, “an’ I guess we’re out o’ lawger. I ben intendin’ to git some more,” he added.
“A glass of milk?” proposed the guest, but without confidence.
“Milkman didn’t come tonight,” said Mr. Elright, shuffling off in his carpet slippers, worn out in spirit with the importunities of the stranger. There was water on the table, for it had been left there from supper time. John managed to consume a doughnut and some crackers and cheese, and then went to his room, carrying the water pitcher with him, and, after a cigarette or two and a small potation from his flask, to bed. Before retiring, however, he stripped the bed with the intention of turning the sheets, but upon inspection thought better of it, and concluded to leave them as they were. So passed his first night in Homeville, and, as he fondly promised himself, his last at the Eagle Hotel.
When Bill and Dick returned to the office after “obligin’ Ame,” they stepped with one accord to the counter and looked at the register. “Why, darn it,” exclaimed Bill, “he didn’t sign his name, after all.”
“No,” said Dick, “but I c’n give a putty near guess who he is, all the same.”
“Some drummer?” suggested Bill.
“Naw,” said Richard scornfully. “What ’d a drummer
