Oh, alliteration is useless.

"Well," said Emma McChesney, encouragingly, "go on."

[Illustration: "'Well!' gulped Jock, 'those two double-bedded,
bloomin' blasted Bisons--'"]

"Well!" gulped Jock McChesney, and glared; "those two double-bedded,
bloomin', blasted Bisons came in at twelve, and the single one about
fifteen minutes later. They didn't surprise me. There was a herd of
about ninety-three of 'em in the hall, all saying good-night to each
other, and planning where they'd meet in the morning, and the time,
and place and probable weather conditions. For that matter, there were
droves of 'em pounding up and down the halls all night. I never saw
such restless cattle. If you'll tell me what makes more noise in the
middle of the night than the metal disk of a hotel key banging and
clanging up against a door, I'd like to know what it is. My three
Bisons were all dolled up with fool ribbons and badges and striped
paper canes. When they switched on the light I gave a crack imitation
of a tired working man trying to get a little sleep. I breathed
regularly and heavily, with an occasional moaning snore. But if those
two hippopotamus Bisons had been alone on their native plains they
couldn't have cared less. They bellowed, and pawed the earth, and
threw their shoes around, and yawned, and stretched and discussed
their plans for the next day, and reviewed all their doings of that
day. Then one of them said something about turning in, and I was so
happy I forgot to snore. Just then another key clanged at the door, in
walked a fat man in a brown suit and a brown derby, and stuff was
off."