“Do you want the hotel, sir?” inquired a Voice.
“Yes; which hotel is this?” demanded the Wreck, directing his voice at the place generally, failing to see any one.
“The Marine Hotel, sir!”
Now, we had heard something of the palatial character of this hotel, and recollecting the traditional shortness of the artist’s purse, we trembled!
“Oh!” said the Wreck, replying to the Voice, “rather expensive hotel, is it not?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the Voice, suddenly becoming endowed with a body—Boots apparently—“first-class hotel, sir.”
This meant waiters in evening dress and haughty chambermaids. What should we dusty wayfarers do in this galley, who carried our luggage on our backs? No landlord of a “first-class hotel” respects a visitor who has not piles of portmanteaux. We faded away from the glance of that candid Boots into the (comparatively) utter darkness, and so down the street again, presently to find that haven where we would be.
We supped, and the Wreck discovered a crumb-brush. “A brush at last!” he exclaimed, vigorously brushing his hat with it.
“But that’s not a hat-brush,” said I, astonished.
“No matter,” said he, “brushes are so jolly scarce down here that I’d take this chance if it were a hearth-brush.”