over the county line into our bailiwick. Four of 'em are still
stoppin' here just because I ain't got the heart to turn 'em out ner
the spare money to buy 'em tickets to New York. Here comes one of 'em
now. Mr. Dillingford, will you show this gentleman to room eleven, and
carry his baggage up fer him? And maybe he'll want a pitcher of warm
water to wash and shave in." He turned to the new guest and smiled
apologetically.

"We're a little short o' help just now, Mr. Barnes, and Mr.
Dillingford has kindly consented to--"

"My God!" gasped Mr. Dillingford, staring at the register. "Some one
from little old New York? My word, sir, you--Won't you have a--er--
little something to drink with me before you--"

"He wants something to eat," interrupted Mr. Jones sharply. "Tell Mr.
Bacon to step up to his room and take the order."

"All right, old chap,--nothing easier," said Mr. Dillingford genially.
"Just climb up the elevator, Mr. Barnes. We do this to get up an
appetite. When did you leave New York?"

Taking up a lighted kerosene lamp and the heavy pack, Mr. Clarence
Dillingford led the way up the stairs. He was a chubby individual of
indefinite age. At a glance you would have said he was under twenty-
one; a second look would have convinced you that he was nearer forty-
one. He was quite shabby, but chin and cheek were as clean as that of
a freshly scrubbed boy. He may not have changed his collar for days
but he lived up to the traditions of his profession by shaving twice
every twenty-four hours.