Knocknarea, with its strange shape, dominates the whole landscape, and is in sight all the way to Sligo, for the train describes a half-circle around it. Sligo itself is a considerable town, with more bustle about its streets than is usual in western Ireland, and the proprietor of its principal hotel is a canny individual who follows the precept, once so popular with American railroads, of charging all the traffic will bear. When I asked the price of a double room, he looked me over, and then he said ten shillings the night.
"Ten shillings a night!" I echoed, in some surprise, for I had not expected to encounter rates so metropolitan on the west coast of Ireland; and then I asked to see the room, thinking it might be something palatial. But it was quite an ordinary room; clean and airy and comfortable enough; but I judged the usual charge for it was about five shillings. There are few things I detest more than being overcharged. "Come along," I said to Betty. "There's another hotel in this town; we'll have a look at it."
The proprietor was waiting nervously in the lobby.
"What's the matter?" he asked, as we came down. "Isn't the room all right?"
"Oh, it's right enough," I said; "but I'm not going to pay two prices for it."
"But this is the best hotel in Sligo," he protested. "There's an American millionaire and his wife staying here right now."
"Well, I'm not a millionaire," I said; "and even if I were, I wouldn't pay ten shillings for that room," and I started to walk out, for I didn't want to argue about it.
But he followed me to the door.
"What would you pay, now?" he asked, ingratiatingly.
I looked at him in surprise, for I hadn't had any idea of fixing his rates for him.