“O, I don’t doubt it,” said Chase. “You look honest.”
“Well, I’ll go and get the pen, ink and paper for you, and then I’ll show you to a room up-stairs, where you’ll be quiet and peaceable like, and there won’t be nobody to bother you.”
“I can write the letter down here just as well,” said Chase, who was afraid that if he went up-stairs he might not be allowed to come down again very soon, “and then I can take it to the post-office myself.”
“But I don’t want you to write it down here, because there’s always fellows coming in. When you get it writ, I can send it to the office for you. Don’t forget my name—John McKay.”
“I won’t,” said Chase, rising to his feet. He executed this movement with the determination of making a bold strike for his freedom. The landlord was moving toward the counter, and Chase stood ready for a spring, intending, as soon as he went behind it, to dart for the door and run out into the street. But the man acted as if he suspected his design, for he walked straight to the door, locked it and put the key into his pocket.
“That’s just to keep everybody out till I come back,” said he, by way of explanation.
The landlord then went behind his counter, and after overhauling the contents of a drawer, found the writing materials and a stamped envelope. Nodding to Chase to follow, he led the way out of the barroom, up two flights of uncarpeted stairs, along a narrow, winding hall, and finally opened a door which led into a room so dark that Chase could not see a single thing in it. There were windows in it, however, for little streaks of light came in through what appeared to be closed blinds.
“Can’t you give me a better room than this?” asked Chase, with an involuntary shudder. “I can’t see to write in here.”
“You can after a while,” said the landlord. “It ain’t so dark as it looks at first sight. Now, how long before I shall come back?”