"Right up here. We'll pass it."
"All right. Take us there first."
Brant's irritation found expression in an oath as they went up the narrow, uneven pavement. He was accustomed to obsequious porters, and his bag was heavy. It was not their guide's age which prevented Brant from giving him the burden, but the fear that he might steal off with it, down a dark alley or side street.
"There's the Keystone," said Daggett. "You can't get in there."
The hotel was brilliantly lighted, a band played in its lobby, and out to the street extended the cheerful, hurrahing crowd. General Davenant, who was to be the orator at the Memorial Day celebration, had come out on a balcony to speak to them. Brant swore again in his disgust.
"I can take you to a fine place," insisted old Daggett.
"Go on, then," said Brant. "What are you waiting for?"
A square farther on, Daggett rapped at the door of a little house. The woman who opened it, lamp in hand, seemed at first unwilling to listen.
"You can't get in here, you old rascal."
But Daggett had put his foot inside the door.