FORTY-TWO CENTS
"FORTY-TWO CENTS"
When I reached the hotel, a man who said he was the proprietor came to my room. He was a sad man with tears in his voice.
"You're comin' to supper, ain't ye? It'll be the last time. It's a kind o' mournful occasion, but I like to have ye."
It was now my turn.
"No, I'm not coming to supper. You drove me out of here half starving into the street two hours ago. I couldn't get anything to eat at Nichols, and so I had to go down the hill to a place near the saw-mill, where I got the most infernal"——
He stopped me with a look of real anxiety.
"Not the five-meals-for-a-dollar place?"
"Yes."
"And you swallowed it?"
"Certainly—poached eggs, peaches, and a lot of things."
"No," he said reflectively, looking at me curiously. "Youdon't want no supper—prob'bility is you won't want no breakfast, either. You'd better eaten the saw-mill—it would 'er set lighter. If I'd known who you were I'd tried"——
"But I told the clerk," I broke in.
"What clerk?" he interrupted in an astonished tone.
"Why, the clerk at the desk, where I registered—that long-necked crane with red eyes."
"He ain't no clerk; we ain't had one for a week. Don't you know what's goin' on? Ain't you read the bills? Step out into the hall—there's one posted up right in front of you. 'Sheriff's sale; all the stock and fixtures of the Norrington Arms to be sold on Wednesday morning'—that's to-morrow—'by order of the Court.' You can read the rest yourself; print's too fine for me. That fellow you call a crane is a deputy sheriff. He's takin' charge, while we eat up what's in the house."