Lord Loveland Discovers America

by C. N. Williamson; A. M. Williamson

This was worse than the Bat Hotel, where each man who earned twenty-five cents could have his own cubicle. But, now, Loveland was not paying his own way. The "management" was to do that; and feed him, too. As he had but a quarter in the world, thrust upon him as a loan or gift by generous Bill, Loveland was not in a position to be critical. Here he was, and here he would have to stay, till he heard from home, or something "turned up."

As for hearing from home, he had begun almost to despair, for his two cables had remained unanswered now these many dreary days. Still, after an interval of more waiting for a telegram from his mother, he had written to her and to Betty Harborough, ashamed to take outsiders into the deepest secrets of his humiliating adventures. But at best, it would be a fortnight before Bill Willing could forward to some address yet to be given, a letter from across the sea; and meanwhile Loveland was a slave of necessity—if not of Jack Jacobus.

That gentleman, having acquitted himself of his duty to the juvenile lead, disappeared, banging the door, leaving the old occupant and the new occupant of the mean, bare room to make each other's acquaintance.

Mr. Binney did not think it worth while to get up, as the juvenile lead was no guest of his, but he raised himself on one elbow, and observed Loveland with an interest that might or might not develop into friendliness. He was thin, pale, and delicate-looking, but he had bright eyes—almost too bright for health—and a firm chin.

For a moment Val resented the youth's existence so keenly that he did not trust himself to speak; but brief reflection reminded him that after all, he was the intruder. A short time ago he would have been intolerant of circumstances even less disagreeable, such as finding himself forced to share a cabin on shipboard, or a wagon-lit compartment, after expecting to travel alone. But much water had gone under the mill of his pride since then; and besides he had learned, greatly to his own surprise, that kindly, agreeable human beings can be found in the lowest classes and queerest circumstances.

Ed Binney looked as though he might have pleasant qualities, if approached in the right way, so with amazing self-restraint Loveland refrained even from the mild insult of a disgusted glance. He said, in his nice voice, that he hoped Mr. Binney wouldn't mind his coming, as he really couldn't help himself. Whereupon Mr. Binney grinned, showing teeth white as a girl's, and replied that if it weren't Mr. Gordon it would be someone else, who might be worse, as it struck Mr. Binney that Mr. Gordon would at least be fond of washing himself.

To this Mr. Gordon responded that there were few things he liked better, but it seemed as if there wouldn't be much opportunity at Smith's Hotel. You had to do it in sections, with a washbowl, said Mr. Binney, but never mind, you got there just the same, if you were in earnest. Then they both laughed, and Binney exclaimed with evident relief, that he was jolly glad Gordon wasn't the sort of boy who put on airs. He'd been afraid at first sight that was the kind he was, but now he guessed it was all the high collar. The feeling was for low, in Miss de Lisle's company, yet he didn't know but those stove pipe ones had a sort of style about 'em.

Then he bounced off his tremulous cot (which had a patchwork quilt somewhat the worse for contact with his boots and was the twin of another little iron-framed bed in a far corner). He showed his room-mate "the ropes"; in other words, which "bureau drawers" were at the newcomer's disposition; where he had better keep his toothbrush, and so on. He confided to Loveland the fact that he himself had not been long in the company, but had come from a better one, which he would now regret if the "one night" stands had not been too much for his strength. "If your lungs are always playing you tricks, you have to put up with barn-stormers, for at least they give you week stands, and most of the hotels throw in fires free," he explained. "I can see that you've stepped down in the world a bit, too, so we ought to have a fellow feelin' for each other."

While Loveland made himself presentable for the early dinner, Ed Binney went on to sketch the members of the "crowd," though in a manner very different from the manager's sarcastic descriptive efforts. He said that Jacobus was a tyrant and a bully, but that he could act; that everyone except Miss Moon was afraid of "J. J.," and she wouldn't be afraid of an Indian chief on the war path: that Miss de Lisle didn't dare say her soul was her own, or that black was black, if old Jack remarked that it wasn't; that Jacobus had done a very good thing for himself in getting hold of Lillie as a star, although she had no money—for she was a peach, a live wire, just the sort of little gal to be a "go" at towns like this. "Folks are wild about her, she's as pretty and as dainty as they make 'em, a whole haystack above what they generally see in these barns," went on Ed. "But she needs managin'—and gee, Jack and his wife do manage her. But the old girl's jealous. I don't know how long the show will last, for if she says stop, Jack stops, you bet. He's as scared of her as everybody else is of him. She runs the shebang, and there's two of her sons by her first husband in it. They can't act, and they can't look, but by gum, they're good to their mother!"

Into the midst of his discourse crashed a ferocious dinner-bell, and in sheer self-defense they rushed downstairs, in the hope of stopping the clamour by their presence.