“O Lord, no, sir. We don't have telegrams here unless somebody's dead.”
“You may give me Mr. Wilton's mail if any comes,” I said.
The landlord led the way up the stairs, and beguiled me by informing me what a fine house he had and how hard the times were.
“We wish a large room, you know, where we can be together,” I said, “and sleeping-rooms adjoining.”
“Here's just the place for you,” said the landlord, taking the way to the end of the upper hall and throwing open a double door. “This is the up-stairs parlor, but I can let you have it. There's this large bedroom opening off it,—the corner bedroom, sir,—and this small one here at this side opens into the parlor and the hall. Perhaps you would like this other one, too.”
He seemed ready and anxious to rent us the whole house.
“This is enough for our comfort,” I assured him.
“There'll be a fire here in a minute,” said the landlord, regarding the miserable little stove with an eye of satisfaction that I attributed to its economical proportions.
“This is good enough,” said Lockhart, looking about approvingly at the prim horsehair furniture that gave an awesome dignity to the parlor.
“Beats our quarters below all hollow,” said Fitzhugh. “And no need to have your gun where you can grab it when the first man says boo!”