"All right!" returned Robinson. "Just make yourself at home. I'll go
downstairs. You'll find me there."

Left alone, Andy reproached himself for his too ready yielding to the
plans of his companion. He wondered why he had done so.

"Mr. Crawford didn't ask me to be economical," he reflected. "He is
willing I should pay ordinary prices at a hotel. I think I have been
very foolish. However, I am in for it. It will serve as a lesson to me,
which I will remember hereafter."

He looked out of the window. There was a lot behind the hotel--if it was
a hotel--covered with ashes, tin cans, and other litter.

"I am sure," thought Andy, "this isn't the kind of hotel Mr. Crawford
wished me to stay at."

When he had washed he went downstairs. As he passed the door of the
barroom he saw Mr. Robinson inside, sitting at the table, with a bottle
and a glass before him.

"Come in, Grant, and have some whisky," he said.

"Thank you, but I don't care for whisky."

"Perhaps you would prefer beer?"

"I don't care to drink anything, thank you."