In the Midst of Alarms | Page 2

on with my teeth to do that."
The reply of the young man was merely a brief mention of the place of torment.
"It is hot," said the clerk blandly. "In from Cleveland?"
"Yes. Any letters for me?"
"Couple of telegrams. You'll find them up in 85."
"Oh, you were cocksure I'd take that room?"
"I was cocksure you'd have to. It is that or the fifth floor. We're full. Couldn't give a better room to the President if he came."
"Oh, well, what's good enough for the President I can put up with for a couple of days."
The hand of the clerk descended on the bell. The negro sprang forward and took the "grip."
"Eighty-five," said the clerk; and the drummer and the Negro disappeared.
"Is there any place where I could leave my bag for a while?" the professor at last said timidly to the clerk.
"Your bag?"
The professor held it up in view.
"Oh, your grip. Certainly. Have a room, sir?" And the clerk's hand hovered over the bell.
"No. At least, not just yet. You see, I'm--"
"All right. The baggage man there to the left will check it for you."
"Any letters for Bond?" said a man, pushing himself in front of the professor. The clerk pulled out a fat bunch of letters from the compartment marked "B," and handed the whole lot to the inquirer, who went rapidly over them, selected two that appeared to be addressed to him, and gave the letters a push toward the clerk, who placed them where they were before.
The professor paused a moment, then, realizing that the clerk had forgotten him, sought the baggage man, whom he found in a room filled with trunks and valises. The room communicated with the great hall by means of a square opening whose lower ledge was breast high. The professor stood before it, and handed the valise to the man behind this opening, who rapidly attached one brass check to the handle with a leather thong, and flung the other piece of brass to the professor. The latter was not sure but there was something to pay, still he quite correctly assumed that if there had been the somewhat brusque man would have had no hesitation in mentioning the fact; in which surmise his natural common sense proved a sure guide among strange surroundings. There was no false delicacy about the baggage man.
Although the professor was to a certain extent bewildered by the condition of things, there was still in his nature a certain dogged persistence that had before now stood him in good stead, and which had enabled him to distance, in the long run, much more brilliant men. He was not at all satisfied with his brief interview with the clerk. He resolved to approach that busy individual again, if he could arrest his attention. It was some time before he caught the speaker's eye, as it were, but when he did so, he said:
"I was about to say to you that I am waiting for a friend from New York who may not yet have arrived. His name is Mr. Richard Yates of the--"
"Oh, Dick Yates! Certainly. He's here." Turning to the negro, he said: "Go down to the billiard room and see if Mr. Yates is there. If he is not, look for him at the bar."
The clerk evidently knew Mr. Dick Yates. Apparently not noticing the look of amazement that had stolen over the professor's face, the clerk said:
"If you wait in the reading room, I'll send Yates to you when he comes. The boy will find him if he's in the house; but he may be uptown."
The professor, disliking to trouble the obliging clerk further, did not ask him where the reading room was. He inquired, instead, of a hurrying porter, and received the curt but comprehensive answer:
"Dining room next floor. Reading, smoking, and writing rooms up the hall. Billiard room, bar, and lavatory downstairs."
The professor, after getting into the barber shop and the cigar store, finally found his way into the reading room. Numerous daily papers were scattered around on the table, each attached to a long, clumsy cleft holder made of wood; while other journals, similarly encumbered, hung from racks against the wall. The professor sat down in one of the easy leather-covered chairs, but, instead of taking up a paper, drew a thin book from his pocket, in which he was soon so absorbed that he became entirely unconscious of his strange surroundings. A light touch on the shoulder brought him up from his book into the world again, and he saw, looking down on him, the stern face of a heavily mustached stranger.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but may I ask if you are a guest of this house?"
A shade of apprehension crossed the professor's face as he slipped the book into his pocket. He