“Oh, there are heads and heads, genius and genius,” replied Crane. “I guess the new-comer off as a newspaper man from Chicago or New York. It requires first-class genius to be a good reporter.”
The stranger under discussion was now giving some directions to a porter regarding his luggage. This he did with that peculiar readiness, or sleight, so to call it, which belongs to none but the veteran traveler. A moment later he came up the wooden steps of the hotel, cast a comprehensive but apparently indifferent glance over the group of guests and passed into the hall, where they heard him say to the boy in waiting: “My room is 24.”
“That is the reserved room,” remarked two or three persons at once.
Great expectations hung about room 24; much guessing had been indulged in considering who was to be the happy and exalted person chosen to occupy it. Now he had arrived, an utter stranger to them all. Everybody looked inquiry.
“Who can he be?”
“It must be Mark Twain,” suggested little Mrs. Philpot, of Memphis.
“Oh, no; Mark Twain is tall, and very handsome; I know Mark,” said Crane.
“How strange!” ejaculated Miss Moyne, and when everybody laughed, she colored a little and added hastily:
“I didn’t mean that it was strange that Mr. Crane should know Mr. Twain, but——”