"Third floor!" cries Capt. Fussy, "take me up into the third story?"
"Plenty of gentlemen on the fifth and sixth floors, sir," says the servant, and he goes ahead, Capt. Fussy following, muttering—
"Pooty doin's this, taking a gentleman up three of these cussed long stairs, to room 182! I'll see about this, I will; mus'n't come no gammon over me; I'm able to pay, and want the worth of my money!"
The third floor is reached, and after a brief meandering along the halls, 182 is arrived at, the door thrown open and Capt. Fussy is ushered in; his first effort is to find fault with the carpets, furniture, bedding or something, but as he had never probably seen such a general arrangement for ease, comfort and convenience—he caved in and merely gave a deep-toned—
"Ah. Got better rooms than this, ain't you?"
"There may be, sir, a few better rooms in the house, not many," said the servant.
"Well, you may go—but stop—how soon'll my supper be ready?"
"There'll be a supper set at eight, another at nine, sir."
"Ah, four minutes of eight," says Fussy, pulling out a "bull's eye" watch, with as much flourish as if it was a premium eighteen-carat lever. "Well, call me when you've got supper ready, do you hear?"
"Yes, sir; but you'll hear the gong."