The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one of those little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance.
"Fifteen cents a bed," he said mechanically.
"We'll use one bed," I told him. "I'll give you twenty cents." I felt the round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining.
"Fifteen cents a bed," he played it back for me.
Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless.
"We can always make it over to the mission," I lied.
The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. "Awright, since we ain't full up. In advance."
I placed the quarter on the desk.
"Give me a nickel."
The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknown before I could move, what with holding up Doc.