“Come aboard, Jim!” he commanded. “Come in and inspect. I’ll see you later, Mrs. Hepton,” he added, “and give you my final word. I want to hold officer’s council with Mr. Pearson here fust.”
The landlady accepted the broad hint and turned to go.
“Very well,” she said, “but I do hope for all our sakes that word will be yes, Mr. Warren—Excuse me, it is Captain Warren, isn’t it?”
“It used to be, yes, ma’am. And at home it is yet. ’Round here I’ve learned to be like a barroom poll-parrot, ready to answer to most everything. There!” as the door closed after her; “now we can be more private. Set down, Jim! How are you, anyway?”
Pearson sat down mechanically. “I’m well enough—everything considered,” he replied, slowly. “But what—what are you in here for? I don’t understand.”
“You will in a minute. What do you think of this—er—saloon cabin?” with a comprehensive sweep of his arm.
The room was of fair size, furnished in a nondescript, boarding-house fashion, and with two windows overlooking the little back yard of the house and those of the other adjoining it. Each yard contained an assortment of ash cans, and there was an astonishing number of clothes lines, each fluttering a variety of garments peculiarly personal to their respective owners.
“Pretty snug, ain’t it?” continued the captain. “Not exactly up to that I’ve been luxuriatin’ in lately, but more fittin’ to my build and class than that was, I shouldn’t wonder. No Corot paintin’s nor five thousand dollar tintypes of dory codders; but I can manage to worry along without them, if I try hard. Neat but not gaudy, I call it—as the architect feller said about his plans for the addition to the county jail at Ostable. Hey? Ho! Ho!”
Pearson began to get a clue to the situation.
“Captain Warren,” he demanded, “have you—Do you mean to say you’ve taken this room to live in?”