“Impossible, Bessie! Clean impossible! Don’t drive me stark mad!” cried the landlord, jerking at his gray hair.
“Well, but, Pop, you must come and tell the gentleman so, or he’ll sit there all night,” remonstrated the girl.
“Blow the fellow to blazes! Where is he?”
“In the parlor, Pop.”
The landlord trotted into the parlor and gave a little start, for, at first sight, he thought the gentleman’s head was on fire! But a second glance showed him that the gentleman only had the reddest hair he had ever seen in his life, and that the level rays of the setting sun, shining through the western window, and falling fall upon this head, set this red hair in a harmless blaze of light.
Recovering from his little shock, he advanced to the gentleman, bowed, and said:
“Well, sir, I am the landlord, and I understand you wish to see me.”
“Yes; I wish to engage a room here to-night.”
“Very sorry, sir; but it is out of the question. Every room in the house is engaged; even my room and my daughter’s room, and the servants’ rooms. And not only that, sir, but every sofa is engaged, and every rug; so you see it is clean impossible.”
“Impossible is it?” inquired the stranger.