spent it on anything, bet it on anything, and gave it away in
handfuls.

He was never drunk, and, as a point of chivalry to his customers,
never quite sober. Anybody was free of the hotel who cared to come
in. Anybody who didn't like it could go out. Drinks of all kinds cost
five cents, or six for a quarter. Meals and beds were practically
free. Any persons foolish enough to go to the desk and pay for them,
Mr. Smith charged according to the expression of their faces.

At first the loafers and the shanty men settled down on the place in
a shower. But that was not the "trade" that Mr. Smith wanted. He knew
how to get rid of them. An army of charwomen, turned into the hotel,
scrubbed it from top to bottom. A vacuum cleaner, the first seen in
Mariposa, hissed and screamed in the corridors. Forty brass beds were
imported from the city, not, of course, for the guests to sleep in,
but to keep them out. A bar-tender with a starched coat and wicker
sleeves was put behind the bar.

The loafers were put out of business. The place had become too "high
toned" for them.

To get the high class trade, Mr. Smith set himself to dress the part.
He wore wide cut coats of filmy serge, light as gossamer; chequered
waistcoats with a pattern for every day in the week; fedora hats
light as autumn leaves; four-in-hand ties of saffron and myrtle green
with a diamond pin the size of a hazel nut. On his fingers there were
as many gems as would grace a native prince of India; across his
waistcoat lay a gold watch-chain in huge square links and in his
pocket a gold watch that weighed a pound and a half and marked