“And,” says he, “if there’s any of t-t-them that sounds like he might be int’restin’, get a talk with him and write up what he says.”
So off I went to the hotel.
“Gimme a look at the register,” says I to Billy Green, the clerk.
“What d’you want to look at the register for?” says Bill, winking at a traveling man that was standing close by.
“To see who’s registered,” says I. “Did you think I wanted to read a poem out of it?”
Bill laughed and pulled the book away.
“No kids allowed,” says he. “I’ll bet your hands are dirty and you’d muss it all up.”
“Bill,” says I, “you better quit makin’ fun of me, or I’ll put a piece in the paper about how you got on the dining-car last week, and didn’t know what finger-bowls was, and drank the water out of your’n, thinkin’ it was lemonade ’cause it had lemon peelin’ in it.”
Bill he got pretty red and looked sideways at the traveling man and tried to laugh it off. But it was so, and I knew it. He didn’t know how I knew it, and I wasn’t going to tell him.
“Do I get to see the register?” says I.