"Is it?" I said calmly.
"Yes, indeed; best this side of Indianapolis."
Thank heaven, I'm going the other way. I didn't tell him that. What I did say was: "You say this is a good hotel and a good table?" He nodded. "Well," I went on, "let me tell you a story." That staggered him, for I saw he realized that if I'd reached the story stage I was due for business.
"There was once a little boy," I proceeded, "who was sitting on the walk under a green apple tree, doubled up with cramps and howling like a pocket edition fiend. A bespectacled lady of severe cast of countenance, stopped and asked him his trouble. 'Them,' said the boy, pointing to the tree, 'and I've an orful pain.'
"'Pain!' said the lady, 'don't you know there's no such thing? You only think so. Have faith and you'll have no pain.'
"'Gee!' said the boy, 'that's all right. You may think there's no pain, but,' rubbing his stomach dolefully, 'I've positive inside information.' And so have I about this hotel," I said to Withers as I left him. Confidentially, I think Withers' label reads "N. G." My one object in life is to put him off the reservation. From now on watch
Your hustling son,
Pierrepont.
P.S. Please ask the cashier to forward an immediate check for enclosed voucher—a bill presented by the landlord of the Eagle Hotel. The "medical services" were for typhoid fever, contracted by his family. It appears that your drummer who came here last fall emptied part of the contents of his sample case in a vacant lot back of the hotel.