Apropos of hotels, I have discovered a curious fact: the farther you go the worse they get, and even if you strike a good one occasionally it only increases your sorrow, for comparison augments the future misery. It's no use to try to pick your hotel. No matter which one you select in a town, you'll be sorry you didn't go to the other. And if you make a change and go to the other you're dead certain to regret that you didn't know when you were well off and stay where you were.
It's no use to complain. I've tried it. Night before last I slept in a room that was apparently a gymnasium for rats. About two o'clock, when they began to use the pit of my stomach for a spring-board, I went down to the office and pried the clerk out from behind the cigar counter.
"See here," I said, "I can't sleep, there's so much noise."
"Sorry, sir, but I can't help it," he replied, flicking a dust atom from the register. "This is a hotel. The Sanitorium is on the next street. Ever try powders?"
"What on?" I queried, not to be outdone, "the rats?"
"Rats? I do hope ye haven't got them. The last man that—"
"No, I haven't got 'em, but the room has. They're all over the place."
"Rats, eh?" and the clerk gave the register a twirl. "Let's see, you're in 51—dollar room. Couldn't expect buffaloes at that price, could ye?"
I stayed in the office the rest of the night and in the morning the clerk pointed me out to his chief.