“To be disposed of, a mail phaeton, the property of a gentleman with a movable headpiece as good as new.”
A tall young man stalked with stately stride into the office of a small hotel in a remote part of the White Mountains. Behind him came a severe valet carrying bags and a gun-case, and on a wagon at the door were two prosperous trunks. In an armchair behind the hotel counter sat a spare old man placidly chewing tobacco and reading the “Weekly Recorder.”
“Ah-h-h! Hm!” the tall young man began. “Is this Mr. Silas P. Meacham, proprietor of this hotel?”
“Yaas,” replied the old one, glancing up over his paper.
“I am Mr. Hanningford Wattster van Derventer, of the Metropolis Club, of New York,” said the visitor, impressively. “My friend, Mr. Vandergilt, told me you would take excellent care of me here.”
“Ya-as,” replied Silas, still buried in his paper.
“I am Mr. Hanningford Wattster van Derventer, of New York,” the visitor repeated. “My friend, Mr. Vandergilt, told me you would take excellent care of me here.”
“Ya-a-as,” said Silas, still chewing and reading his paper.
“I am Mr. Hanningford Wattster van Derventer, of New York,” the young man reiterated with the air of one who tells great news, also with rising indignation. “My friend, Mr. Vandergilt, told me you would take excellent care of me—show me every attention.”