Whitaker waited by the desk, a gaunt, weary man, hag-ridden by fear. There was in his mind a desolate picture of the room up-stairs when he—his soul: the imperishable essence of himself—should have finished with it....
At his elbow lay the hotel register, open at a page neatly headed with a date in red ink. An absence of entries beneath the date-line seemed to indicate that he was the first guest of the day. Near the book was a small wooden corral neatly partitioned into stalls wherein were herded an ink-well, toothpicks, matches, some stationery, and—severely by itself—a grim-looking raw potato of uncertain age, splotched with ink and wearing like horns two impaled penholders.
Laboriously prying loose one of the latter, Whitaker registered; but two-thirds of his name was all he entered; when it came to "Whitaker," his pen paused and passed on to write "Philadelphia" in the residence column.
The thought came to him that he must be careful to obliterate all laundry marks on his clothing.
In his own good time the clerk appeared: a surly, heavy-eyed, loutish creature in clothing that suggested he had been grievously misled by pictures in the advertising pages of magazines. Whitaker noted, with insensate irritation, that he wore his hair long over one eye, his mouth ajar, his trousers high enough to disclose bony purple ankles. His welcome to the incoming guest was comprised in an indifferent nod as their eyes met, and a subsequent glance at the register which seemed unaccountably to moderate his apathy.
"Mr. Morton—uh?" he inquired.
Whitaker nodded without words.
The youth shrugged and scrawled an hieroglyph after the name. "Here, Sammy," he said to the boy—"Forty-three." To Whitaker he addressed the further remark: "Trunks?"
"No."
The youth seemed about to expostulate, but checked when Whitaker placed one of his hundred-dollar notes on the counter.