Jim stood goggling after him, as nonplussed as if the old fellow had suddenly developed the old-fashioned dragon habit of spouting smoke and flames. Behind Jim the fat station-agent laughed twice, thus: “Heh! Heh!” which was all he could manage on account of his weight and the heat. Jim’s ears burned; he snatched up his grip and followed in the wake of the buggy.
He halted before a sign which proclaimed that here was the Diversity House. There did not seem to be a great deal of bustle connected with this establishment; as a matter of fact, there was no sign of life at all unless you count an unshaven gentleman in white woolen socks and a calico shirt, who lent the support of his back to a post on the piazza and snored feebly. Jim went in. The office was deserted. He coughed. In another month Jim knew how useless it was to seek to attract attention in that hotel by coughing, indeed by anything short of exploding dynamite on the floor. Next he tried kicking the counter. At best it was only a hollow-sounding sort of kick and got no results whatever. Jim was growing impatient, so he inserted three or four fingers in his mouth and whistled. It was a lovely, ear-splitting, sleep-piercing whistle, and Jim heard a movement on the porch.
The gentleman of the white socks peered through the window, feeling of his ear as though it had been sorely abused, and looked at Jim disapprovingly.
“Gosh all hemlock!” exclaimed the gentleman, mildly.
“Are you the proprietor?” Jim demanded.
The gentleman stared some more. “Who? Me? Ho! Don’t calc’late to be,” he said.
“Where is he? Dead?”
“If he is he hain’t let on to nobody. Seems though he might be over t’ the printin’-office playin’ cribbage.”
“What do I do? Wait till he comes back before I get a room?”
“Hain’t no objections, but mostly they go up and pick out the room they like.”