“All doggoned dirty.”
“Which is the cheapest?”
“All doggoned dear.”
“Which is the quietest?”
“Doggoned row goin’ on in all of ’em most o’ the time. Man killed at some one on ’em ’most every night, and a brace or more on dance-nights.”
We requested him to direct us to the “American” or the “Mansion House.”
“Don’t need to go far. That,” said he, indicating by a movement of his cigar and his lower jaw a partially finished “balloon-frame” house about thirty yards to the right, “is the ’Merik’n; and that,” indicating in like manner a canvas shed to the left, “is the Mansh’n House.”
Devil’s Landing consisted of about a dozen mushroom edifices and about as many “dug-outs.” On reflection, we concluded to try the “American House.”
A small space cut off by an unpainted counter served for an office, but no “register” was displayed. The establishment had only very recently been moved up, the official behind the counter informed us, from the last resting-place by the way of runners with the rails.
A look at the “sleeping apartments” was sufficient for me. I determined not to sleep in any of them if I could possibly help it.