"First three are ours," he explained. "Only vacancies here. Eight rooms in this hotel—the other four over there." He pointed across the room, on the other side of which opened four similar doors. "They're occupied by two sick men, one drunk—hear him snore?—and one she-goat which is kidding."
"Huh?" Tim snorted, suspiciously. "I think ye're the one that's kiddin', Cap."
"Not a bit. I looked. The last room on this side is the Dutchman's, and these are ours. Take your pick. They're all alike."
Knowlton stepped to the nearest and looked in. For a moment he said no word. Then he softly muttered:
"Well, I'll be spread-eagled!"
"Me, too," seconded Tim, who had been craning his neck.
The room was absolutely empty. No bed, no chair, no bureau, no rug—nothing at all was in it except two iron hooks. Its floor consisted of split palm logs, round side up, between which opened inch-wide spaces. Its walls were rusty corrugated iron, guiltless of mirrors or pictures, which did not reach to the roof.
"Observe the excellent ventilation," grinned McKay. "Wind blows up through the floor—if there is any wind—and then loops over the partition into the next fellow's room."
"Yeah. And I'll say any guy that drops his collar button is out o' luck. It goes plunk into the mud, seven foot down under the house. But say, Cap, how the heck do we sleep? Hang ourselves up on them hooks?"
"Exactly."