I saw Mr. Smart a few weeks ago, and he gave me his report of his
trip: "I learned something," he added; "I believe I can make more
money by having the wholesale houses my friends than I can by making
them mad at me, and now we get along first rate. I guess Luce is one
of the best friends I've got, but I was all-fired mad at him that
time, I tell you. And what made me the hottest was that I felt the old
man was right."




CHAPTER IX.


A good hotel is a blessing, but the best hotel is still a hotel, and
can be nothing more. One feels all right until the bellboy has fixed
the key in the door and gone. Then you begin to realize that you are
alone. There's but little difference, I imagine, in the feelings of a
prisoner going into his cell at the close of day and those of a man in
his lonely bed room in a hotel. There may be noises and voices, even
songs and laughing, on either side of you, but these only serve to
show you how lonesome you are.

I dislike to go to my room until I am forced to do so by the hour. I
want to be among people and to see them about me. I go to my room
under protest; I turn the key, fix the bolt, look at the window, open
my valise, and wish I was at home. I think of fires, of sudden
sickness, of to-morrow's trade, of to-day's orders, and of all the
pros and cons of business. Through the night I hear scurrying feet in
the hall, the late arrivals, the early risers, the bell-boy's raps on