As soon as he had passed beyond the more pretentious country places Morey turned into a cross road, and at the first thrifty-looking farmhouse he pulled up. In fifteen minutes the faithful old Betty had been sold for $30, surrey thrown in, and Morey and Amos were on their way back to the fort, toiling and sweating beneath their bag and bundles.
“How come yo’ did’n leab dese in the barn?” panted Amos.
“Because,” explained Morey, “since Lieutenant Purcell has insulted you I thought you wouldn’t want to sleep and eat in his house. We are going in to Washington.”
“He did’n ’sult me ’bout eatin’. I had roas’ beef las’ night,” Amos retorted, smacking his lips. “I ain’t fussin’ ’bout stayin’ dar.”
Morey was in no mood for further discussion. When he reached the trolley line he boarded a car and a few minutes later had crossed the river and was in Georgetown. Keeping a vigilant lookout he finally discovered, as the car crossed Jefferson street, in the vicinity of a river basin and a maze of railroad tracks, a cheap hotel. As soon as he could stop the car he made his way back. He could get two rooms at the rate of fifty cents each a day, without meals. A bargain was struck and the boys took possession of adjoining apartments. It was a hotel for railroad and dock laborers. Neither rooms nor surroundings were very savory, but they were reasonably clean.
Amos was in somewhat of a panic when he learned that he was to be left here until night.
“Whar’ I gwine to eat?” was his first question.
“Amos,” said Morey with a laugh, “you don’t appreciate your good luck. See that bed? It has sheets on it. You haven’t had sheets in years.”