"Salamanaca! change cars for Bradford," and soon I am speeding on to B. over the R. & P. road. Two young men and myself are the sole occupants of the car.
"Where do you stop when you go to B.?" one asks of the other.
"At the —— (naming one of the best hotels) generally, but they starve a fellow there. In fact, they do at all the hotels; none of them any good."
"Well, that's just my plain opinion," No. 1 answers, and I cuddle down to sleep, fully assured that I am really near Bradford, where everything is "no good," and "just too horrid for anything." Suppose those young dandies are "Oil Princes"—"Coal Oil Johnnies," you know—and can smash a hotel just for the amusement, but can't pay for their fun.
When I arrived at Bradford the young men watched me tug at my satchels as I got off, all alone, in the darkness of the midnight hour. I knew my brother would not be expecting me, and had made up my mind to take the street cars and go to the St. James. But no street cars were in waiting and only one carriage.
"Go to the ——, lady?"
"No, I don't know that house," I replied; and giving my satchels in the ticket agent's care, I started out in the darkness, across the bridge, past dark streets and alleys, straight up Main street, past open saloons and billiard halls, but not a policeman in sight. So I kept an eye looking out on each side while I walked straight ahead with as firm and measured tread as though I commanded a regiment of soldiers, and I guess the clerk at the St. James thought I did, for he gave me an elegant suite of rooms with three beds. I gave two of them to my imaginary guards, and knelt at the other to thank the dear Father that He had brought me safely so near home.
"How much for my lodging?" I asked, in the morning.
"Seventy-five cents."
I almost choked as I repeated, "Seventy-five cents! Won't you please take fifty?"