“I think you might venture to recline on some of these sofas and go to sleep,” said the squire, as he nodded good-morning and left the room, accompanied by the earl and the skipper.
When they went down, left the hotel and stood upon the sidewalk, Mr. Force looked up and down the streets in search of that line of hacks which usually stands drawn up before every large hotel. But it was not to be seen.
Inquiry of the porters developed a startling fact—nearly all the horses in Washington had a plague called epizoötic. There were but few hacks in the public service now, and they were always “on the go.” There were but few street cars running, because there were but few horses to draw them, and they were always overcrowded.
“Shall we walk, Enderby? Or shall we stand on the reeking platform of one of these passing cars?” Mr. Force inquired.
“Oh, walk, by all means, as long as we have a leg to stand on, in preference to adding three hundred pounds more to the burden of those poor beasts,” promptly replied the earl.
“Fortunately, all the best hotels are on or near the avenue,” observed the squire, as they turned westward.
“Now, doesn’t it seem as if war were quite enough of evil without a plague among the horses, Enderby?” inquired Abel Force.
“You may thank Heaven that the plague is not among the humans,” replied the earl.
“Here is the Metropolitan. We will try here,” said the squire.
And they went in, but were not successful; the house was full.