"All right, all right," Eugene said, briskly. "And, by-the-way, I haven't mentioned that I saw you in New York."
"Oh, I didn't suppose that you would."
"And you needn't say anything about it, I fancy."
"I don't think," said Joe,—"I don't think that you need be afraid I'll do that. Good-bye."
"Be sure to shut the door, please; it's rather noisy with it open. Good-bye." Eugene waved his hand and sank back upon the divan.
Joe went across the street to the "National House." The sages fell as silent as if he had been Martin Pike. They had just had the pleasure of hearing a telephone monologue by Mr. Brown, the clerk, to which they listened intently: "Yes. This is Brown. Oh—oh, it's Judge Pike? Yes indeed, Judge, yes indeed, I hear you—ha, ha! Of course, I understand. Yes, Judge, I heard he was in town. No, he hasn't been here. Not yet, that is, Judge. Yes, I hear. No, I won't, of course. Certainly not. I will, I will. I hear perfectly, I understand. Yes, sir. Good-bye, Judge."
Joe had begun to write his name in the register. "My trunk is still at the station," he said. "I'll give you my check to send down for it."
"Excuse me," said the clerk. "We have no rooms."
"What!" cried Joe, innocently. "Why, I never knew more than eight people to stay here at the same time in my life."
"We have no rooms," repeated the clerk, curtly.