"You peen trinken—aind it. Chim help you up de stairs last nide."
"What time is it?" he asked, with an effort to recall where he had been.
"Tweluf o'clock," she replied, still looking at him keenly, genuinely concerned about him.
"Go away. I must get up." As she went toward the door he sat up for a moment, but a terrible throbbing pain just back of his eyes threw him back upon his pillow as if he had met the blow of a fist. "Oh, I'm used up—I can't do it," he groaned, pressing his palms to his temples. "I'm burning up with fever."
The girl came back. "Dat's vat I tought. You dond look ride. Your mudder vouldn't known you since you gome here. Pedder you send for your folks alretty."
"Oh, go out—let me alone. Yes, I'll do it. I'll get up soon."
When the girl returned with the proprietor of the hotel Harold was far past rational speech. He was pounding furiously on the door, shouting, "Let me out!" When they tried to open the door they found it locked. The proprietor, a burly German, set his weight against it and tore the lock off.
Harold was dangerously quiet as he said: "You'd better let me out o' here. Them greasers are stampeding the cattle. It's a little trick of theirs."
"Dot's all right; you go back to bed; I'll look out for dot greaser pisness," said the landlord, who thought him drunk.