"I wish my luggage to be carried up to the hotel," said Mr. Heathcote, importantly, to the station agent.
"He calls it 'luggage,' and this in Colorado!" groaned Hobart.
"Your what?" exclaimed the station agent, a large man in his shirt-sleeves, with a pen thrust behind his ear.
"My luggage; my trunk," replied Mr. Heathcote.
"Then you had better carry it yourself; I've nothing to do with it," said the agent, with Western brusqueness, as he turned away.
Harley, always ready to seize an opportunity, and resolved to mitigate things, stepped forward.
"I beg your pardon, but this is Mr. Heathcote, is it not?" he asked, courteously.
The committeeman put a glass in his eye and regarded him quite coolly. Harley, despite his habitual self-control, shuddered. He did not mind the supercilious gaze, but he knew the effect of the monocle upon the crowd.
"Yes, I am Mr. Heathcote," said the committeeman, "and you ah—I—don't believe—ah—"
"I haven't been introduced," said Harley, with a smile, "but I can introduce myself; it's all right here in the West. I merely wanted to tell you that you had better get them at the hotel to send the porter down for your trunk. There are no carriages, but it's only a short walk to the hotel. It's the large white building on the hill in front of you."