“It’s all right, Colvin,” he broke in impatiently; “three tickets to Los Angeles, drawing-room, one lower berth, one section, checks for two trunks; come on!”
Very methodically the man called Colvin stowed away his green and red slips, first in an envelope, then in his pocket-book, finally buttoning an inside pocket over all. He was the image of a rather stupid, conscientious English serving creature. Carefully he counted out a liberal but not lavish tip for the porter, and watched that functionary depart. Last of all, he locked the door.
With extreme courtesy of manner Winter approached the young man.
“Pardon me,” said he. “I am Colonel Winter; my aunt, Mrs. Winter, has the rooms near yours, and she finds that she needs another room or two. Are you leaving yours?”
“These are Mr. Keatcham’s rooms, not mine,” the young man responded politely. “He is leaving them.”
“When you give up your keys, would you mind asking the clerk to send them up to me?” pursued the colonel. “Room three twenty-seven.”
“Certainly,” replied the young man, “or would you like to look at them a moment now?”
“Why—if it wouldn’t detain you,” hesitated Winter; he was hardly prepared for the offer of admittance.
“Get the elevator and hold it a minute, Colvin,” said the young man, and he instantly fitted the key to the door, which he flung open.
“Excuse me,” said he, as they stood in the room, “but aren’t you the Colonel Winter who held that mountain pass to let the other fellows get off, after your ammunition was exhausted?”