The crowd of passengers, alert to register and secure rooms, hurried up the windy wharf. The interior of the hotel kept the promise of the outside for comfort. Behind the glass-defended verandas, in the spacious office and general lounging-room, sea-coal fires glowed in the wide grates, tables were heaped with newspapers and the illustrated pamphlets in which railways and hotels set forth the advantages of leaving home; luxurious chairs invited the lazy and the tired, and the hotel-bureau, telegraph-office, railway-office, and post-office showed the new-comer that even in this resort he was still in the centre of activity and uneasiness. The Bensons, who had fortunately secured rooms a month in advance, sat quietly waiting while the crowd filed before the register, and took its fate from the courteous autocrat behind the counter. “No room,” was the nearly uniform answer, and the travelers had the satisfaction of writing their names and going their way in search of entertainment. “We've eight hundred people stowed away,” said the clerk, “and not a spot left for a hen to roost.”
At the end of the file Irene noticed a gentleman, clad in a perfectly-fitting rough traveling suit, with the inevitable crocodile hand-bag and tightly-rolled umbrella, who made no effort to enroll ahead of any one else, but having procured some letters from the post-office clerk, patiently waited till the rest were turned away, and then put down his name. He might as well have written it in his hat. The deliberation of the man, who appeared to be an old traveler, though probably not more than thirty years of age, attracted Irene's attention, and she could not help hearing the dialogue that followed.
“What can you do for me?”
“Nothing,” said the clerk.
“Can't you stow me away anywhere? It is Saturday, and very inconvenient for me to go any farther.”
“Cannot help that. We haven't an inch of room.”
“Well, where can I go?”
“You can go to Baltimore. You can go to Washington; or you can go to Richmond this afternoon. You can go anywhere.”