"Monsieur Yang-kee?" said the landlord, a little puzzled.
"Look here, captain, I ain't a monseer—I don't eat frogs. Do I look like it. No, I'm a straight-down, dyed-in-the-wool Yankee, from Squashboro', State o' Maine."
"Will you have a room?" asked the landlord, avoiding the word monsieur, which he perceived the other disclaimed, for some reason which he could not very well comprehend.
"Yes, I will, if I can get one cheap. I don't want none of your big apartments, that cost like blazes. I want a little room, with a bed in it, and a chair."
"We have petits apartements—very small price."
"Give me one, then. Oh, hold on; is there a boy named Frank Hunter stoppin' here, with a man named Sharpley?"
"Non, monsieur. He has been here, but he is gone."
"Gone? When did he go?"
"Three days ago."