The room was small, but it was papered, it was rugged, its floor was
painted and waxed, its window--opening into the court, by the way--was
hung with chintz and net curtains, its bed was garnished with sheets and
counterpane, its chairs were upholstered and in perfect repair and
polish. It was not Arizona, emphatically not, but rather the sweet and
garnished and lavendered respectability of a Connecticut village. My
dirty old _cantinas_ lay stacked against the washstand. At sight of them
I had to grin. Of course I travelled cowboy fashion. They contained a
toothbrush, a comb, and a change of underwear. The latter item was
sheer, rank pride of caste.

It was all most incongruous and strange. But the strangest part, of
course, was the fact that I found myself where I was at that moment. Why
was I thus received? Why was I, an ordinary and rather dirty cowpuncher,
not sent as usual to the men's bunk house? It could not be possible that
Old Man Hooper extended this sort of hospitality to every chance
wayfarer. Arizona is a democratic country, Lord knows: none more so! But
owners are not likely to invite in strange cowboys unless they
themselves mess with their own men. I gave it up, and tried
unsuccessfully to shrug it off my mind, and sought distraction in
looking about me. There was not much to see. The one door and one
window opened into the court. The other side was blank except that near
the ceiling ran a curious, long, narrow opening closed by a transom-like
sash. I had never seen anything quite like it, but concluded that it
must be a sort of loop hole for musketry in the old days. Probably they
had some kind of scaffold to stand on.

I pulled off my shirt and took a good wash: shook the dust out of my