"Nothing!" was growled back.
"Well, I wish you'd find it."
"Find it yourself, and—" I cannot repeat the profane language he used.
"Never mind," said I. "A pencil will do just as well." And I drew one from my pocket. The attempt to write with this, on the begrimed and greasy page of the register, was only partially successful. It would have puzzled almost any one to make out the name. From the date of the last entry, it appeared that mine was the first arrival, for over a week, of any person desiring a room.
As I finished writing my name, Frank came stalking in, with a cigar in his mouth, and a cloud of smoke around his head. He had grown into a stout man—though his face presented little that was manly, in the true sense of the word. He was disgustingly sensual. On seeing me, a slight flush tinged his cheeks.
"How do you do?" he said, offering me his hand. "Peter,"—he turned to the lazy-looking bar-keeper—"tell Jane to have No. 11 put in order for a gentleman immediately, and tell her to be sure and change the bed linen."
"Things look rather dull here," I remarked, as the bar-keeper went out to do as he had been directed.
"Rather; it's a dull place, anyhow."
"How is your mother?" I inquired.
A slight, troubled look came into his face, as he answered: