The clerk of the leading hotel in Seattle whirled his register about as a man deposited a weather-beaten war-bag on the marble floor and leaned over the counter to inquire:
"Is Murray O'Neil here?"
This question had been asked repeatedly within the last two hours, but heretofore by people totally different in appearance from the one who spoke now. The man behind the desk measured the stranger with a suspicious eye before answering. He saw a ragged, loose-hung, fat person of melancholy countenance, who was booted to the knee and chewing gum.
"Mr. O'Neil keeps a room here by the year," he replied, guardedly.
"Show me up!" said the new-comer as if advancing a challenge.
A smart reply was on the lips of the clerk, but something in the other's manner discouraged flippancy.
"You are a friend of Mr. O'Neil's?" he asked, politely.
"Friend? Um-m, no! I'm just him when he ain't around." In a loud tone he inquired of the girl at the news-stand, "Have you got any wintergreen gum?"
"Mr. O'Neil is not here."
The fat man stared at his informant accusingly, "Ain't this the fifteenth?" he asked.