"You don't say!" exclaimed Emma McChesney, and turned to the clerk.
"This is my son, Jock McChesney--Mr. Sims. Is this true?"

"Glad to know you, sir," said Mr. Sims. "Why, yes, I'm afraid we are
pretty well filled up, but seeing it's you maybe we can do something
for you."

He ruminated, tapping his teeth with a pen-holder, and eying the pair
before him with a maddening blankness of gaze. Finally:

"I'll do my best, but you can't expect much. I guess I can squeeze
another cot into eighty-seven for the young man. There's--let's see
now--who's in eighty-seven? Well, there's two Bisons in the double
bed, and one in the single, and Fat Ed Meyers in the cot and--"

Emma McChesney stiffened into acute attention. "Meyers?" she
interrupted. "Do you mean Ed Meyers of the Strauss Sans-silk Skirt
Company?"

"That's so. You two are in the same line, aren't you? He's a great
little piano player, Ed is. Ever hear him play?"

"When did he get in?"

"Oh, he just came in fifteen minutes ago on the Ashland division. He's
in at supper." "Oh," said Emma McChesney. The two letters breathed
relief.

But relief had no place in the voice, or on the countenance of Jock
McChesney. He bristled with belligerence. "This cattle-car style of