The clerk rapped on the door twice. There was no answer.
“I guess he’s out,” said the boy.
“Knock again—good and loud,” I commanded.
The boy rapped and just then the door opened a tiny way—about an inch, I guess, but through that little crack I saw the eye and part of the curling black moustache of Swiftwater Bill.
Then I threw myself against the door and walked in.
“COME OUT OF THAT, BILL! I HAVEN’T GOT A GUN.”
I wish I could tell you how funny was Swiftwater’s apparition, as, clad only in his white night robe, he jumped into bed, pulling the covers over his head.