"Ain't nuthin' cooked 'tween meals. Supper at seven."
"Can't I get"——
"Yer can't get nuthin' until supper-time, and yer won't get no Burgundy then. Yer couldn't get a bottle in Norrington with a club. This town's prohibition. Want a room?" This last word was almost shouted in my ear.
"Yes—one with a wood fire." I kept my temper.
"Front!"—this to a boy half asleep on a bench. "Take this bag to No. 37, and turn on the steam. Your turn next"—and he handed the pen to a fresh arrival, who had walked up from the train.
No. 37 contained a full set of Michigan furniture, including a patent wash-stand that folded up to look like a bookcase, smelt slightly of varnish, and was as hot as a Pullman sleeper.
I threw up all the windows; came down and tackled the clerk again.
"Is there a restaurant near by?"
"Next block above. Nichols."
He never looked up—just kept on chewing the toothpick.