The “Perfesser” looked slightly startled, but nodded assent.
“Very well; you are engaged. We shall have to hire an automobile.”
“You got to see Sidewinder Crowfoot about that. He owns ’em all.”
“Very well. Come to my room in an hour, when I have had a chance to remove the stains of travel. By the way, where is the hotel? I wrote to engage rooms, but see no hostelry.”
“Right yere under your nose, Perfesser. Hassayamp is takin’ in the mail—thar he is. —Hey, Hassayamp! Meet my friend the Perfesser. This is Hassayamp Foster, Perfesser. The Perfesser’s a bug-hunter, Hassayamp, and wants a bed.”
“My beds won’t help him none,” said Hassayamp, a lean and melancholic individual who came forward, chewing a ragged mustache. “I got a room for you, Puffesser.”
“With bath,” said Tompkins. Hassayamp halted and blinked.
“Bath? Good gosh, we don’t allow no washin’ in the springs this time o’ year! Got to use a cream separator to git enough drinkin’ water. Rains are over, but they aint filled the springs yet—not for another two weeks, I reckon.”
“I refer, sir, to a bathroom attached,” explained Tompkins.
“Well, there aint none,” said Hassayamp. “Whar’s your grips?”