"How much is it for a room?" asked Loveland.
"Oh, a room! I don't run to a room. A bed in a vast wilderness is good enough for me. But a quarter'll get you one. Three nickels for a bed."
Loveland searched his pockets, and dubiously exhibited two silver coins mixed democratically with a few nickels and impotent looking little coppers. The prospect appeared hopeless to him, but Willing exclaimed with delight.
"Gee! Forty-five cents! You're a bloated millionaire. You might be asleep in two beds at the Bat Hotel, instead of cooling in this ice-cream freezer."
"If there's the price of two beds, you must have one," said Loveland.
"Thank you. You're the real stuff," returned Bill, gratitude in his voice. "But I'm O. K. where I am. You stick to your stamps. I know just how you feel. I'm always chuckin' my last cent away on some poor dickybird, thinkin' 'twill be all right tomorrow and what's the odds."
"There are no odds against me this time," Val assured him. "You've cheered me up no end, and you must share what I have. But about the hotel?"
"It's clean all right. Mayn't be the Plaza or the Waldorf, but no dive. It's warm, and the rooms are real natty."
"What about food?" asked Loveland. "Can we run to it?" and he glanced at the coins in his hand.
"Keep the change. We'll eat for nothing. Now's our time to join the Bread Line."