"Kind o' rough on a feller's shirt, ain't it? And the shirt would likely pull off over yer head before mornin'."
"Yes, probably would. But the secret is this—you're supposed to hang your hammock on those hooks. You provide the hammock. The hotel provides the hooks. What more can you ask of a modern hotel?"
"Huh! And if a guy wants a bath, there's the river, all full o' 'gators and cattawampuses and things. And if ye eat, I s'pose ye rustle yer own grub and pay for eatin' it off that slab table there. There's jest one thing ye can say for this dump—a feller can spit on the floor. But with all them cracks in it he might not hit it, at that. Mother of mine! To think Missus Ryan's li'l' boy should ever git caught stayin' in a hole like this, along o' drunks and skiddin' she-goats and—did ye say a Dutchman?"
"German. Chap named Schwandorf."
"Yeah?" Tim's tone was sinister. "Say, Cap, gimme the room next that guy. And if ye hear anybody yowlin' before mornin' don't git worried. It won't be me."
"None of that, Tim," warned Knowlton. "The war's over—"
"Since when? There wasn't no peace treaty signed when we left the States."
"Er—ahum! Well, technically you're right. But this fellow may be useful to us. He knows the upper river, they say."
"Aw, well, if ye can use him I'll lay off him. Where is he?"
"Out somewhere," answered McKay. "I haven't seen him yet. Want this first room, Merry?"