“Is Ben there?” asked Mr. Opp, studying a time-table, and making a note in his memorandum-book.
“Your brother Ben? Yes; he come this mornin’ just before I left. He was cussin’ considerable because you wasn’t there, so’s they could go on and git through. He wants to start back to Missouri to-night.”
“Is he out at the house?”
“No; he’s at Your Hotel.”
Mr. Opp looked up in surprise, and Jimmy chuckled.
“That there’s the name of my new hotel. Started up sence you went away. Me and old man Tucker been running boardin’-houses side by side all these years. What did he do last summer but go out and git him a sign as big as the side of the house, and git Nick Fenny to paint ‘Our Hotel’ on it; then he put it up right across the sidewalk, from the [p9] gate clean out to the road. I didn’t say nothin’, but let the boys keep on a-kiddin’ me till the next day; then I got me a sign jus’ like his, with ‘Your Hotel’ on it, and put it up crost my sidewalk. He’d give a pretty if they was both down now; but he won’t take his down while mine is up, and I ain’t got no notion of taking it down.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Opp, absently, for his mind was still on the time-table; “I see that there’s an accommodation that departs out of Coreyville in the neighborhood of noon to-morrow. It’s a little unconvenient, I’m afraid, but do you think you could get me back in time to take it?”
“Why, what’s yer hurry?” asked Jimmy, steering for mid-stream. “I thought you’d come to visit a spell, with all them bags and things.”
Mr. Opp carelessly tossed back the sleeve of the coat, to display more fully the name on the suit-case. “Them’s drummers’ samples,” he said almost reverently—“the finest line of shoes that [p10] have ever been put out by any house in the United States, bar none.”
“Why, I thought you was in the insurance business,” said Jimmy.