“Sounds reasonable,” says I.
“But I guess maybe we kin edge around and find out without askin’ straight out,” says he.
“I hain’t much good at edgin’,” says I. “You do it.”
“Come on, then,” says he, and we went into the hotel office and stood around like we just come in for nothing in particular, and sort of gradual we got over to the desk. “Nice mornin’,” says Catty to the clerk. “Fine,” says the clerk, sort of grinnin’. “Was you lookin’ for a room with a bath?”
“Us!” says Catty, surprised-like. “Jest a room with a bath? That the best you got? Huh!... When we stay in a hotel it hain’t no measly room with a bath we take. No, sirree! We git a whole mess of rooms and baths, maybe three or four bedrooms, so’s when we git tired of sleepin’ in one we kin take to another; and we have settin’-rooms and standin’-rooms and, in hotels where we don’t like the cookin’, we have our own kitchen. That’s us, mister. Now what you got that might suit us?”
“We’re just out of kitchens,” says the clerk. “Usually we keep eighteen or twenty extry kitchens up-stairs for p’tic’lar guests, so’s they kin boil their own eggs soft. But they’re occupied now. Best we kin let you have is a parlor with two bedrooms off’n it—and a piece of the hall if that hain’t enough. All our regular palatial suites is rented.”
“Who to?” says Catty.
“There’s a large party of folks by the name of Mr. Kinderhook that’s taken ’em,” says the clerk. “He’s usin’ more room to sleep in than a whole minstrel troupe.”
“I heard he took a lot of rooms,” says Catty. “Must cost him a sight of money.”
“Guess he’s got it to spend.”