All this was very strange to the professor, and he felt himself in a
new world, with whose customs he was not familiar. Nobody paid the
slightest attention to him as he stood there among it all with his
satchel in his hand. As he timidly edged up to the counter, and tried
to accumulate courage enough to address the clerk, a young man came
forward, flung his handbag on the polished top of the counter,
metaphorically brushed the professor aside, pulled the bulky register
toward him, and inscribed his name on the page with a rapidity equaled
only by the illegibility of the result.

"Hello, Sam!" he said to the clerk. "How's things? Get my telegram?"

"Yes," answered the clerk; "but I can't give you 27. It's been taken
for a week. I reserved 85 for you, and had to hold on with my teeth to
do that."

The reply of the young man was merely a brief mention of the place of
torment.

"It _is_ hot," said the clerk blandly. "In from Cleveland?"

"Yes. Any letters for me?"

"Couple of telegrams. You'll find them up in 85."

"Oh, you were cocksure I'd take that room?"

"I was cocksure you'd have to. It is that or the fifth floor. We're
full. Couldn't give a better room to the President if he came."