The first glance was not reassuring. It was perhaps more Greek than
Colonial or Early English or Late Dutch. Four high wooden boxes,
painted brown, were set up on end--Doric columns these--supporting a
pediment of like material and color. Half-way up these supports hung a
balcony, where the Fourth of July orator always stands when he
addresses his fellow citizens. Old, of course, I said to myself--early
part of this century. Not exactly moss-covered and inn-like, as I
expected to find, but inside it's all right.
"Please take in that bag and fur overcoat." This to the driver, in a
cheery tone.
The clerk was leaning over the counter, chewing a toothpick. Evidently
he took me for a drummer, for he stowed the bag behind the desk, and
hung the overcoat up on a nail in a side room opening out of the
office, and within reach of his eye.
When I registered my name it made no perceptible change in his manner.
He said, "Want supper?" with a tone in his voice that convinced me he
had not heard a word of the Event which brought me to West
Norrington--I being the Event.
"No, not now. I would like you to send to my room in half an hour a
broiled chicken, some celery, and any vegetable which you can get
ready--and be good enough to put a pint of Burgundy"----
I didn't get any further. Something in his manner attracted me. I had
not looked at him with any degree of interest before. He had been
merely a medium for trunk check, room key, and ice water--nothing
more.
Now I did. I saw a young man--a mean-looking young man--with a narrow,
squeezed face, two flat glass eyes sewed in with red cotton, and a
disastrous complexion. His hair was brushed like a barber's, with a
scooping curl over the forehead; his neck was long and thin--so long
that his apple looked over his collar's edge. This collar ran down to
a white shirt decorated with a gold pin, the whole terminating in a
low-cut velvet vest.
"Supper at seven," he said.
This, too, came with a jerk.
"Yes, I know, but I haven't eaten anything since breakfast, and don't
want to wait until"----
"Ain't nuthin' cooked 'tween meals. Supper at seven."
"Can't I get"----
"Yer can't get nuthin' until supper-time, and yer won't get no
Burgundy then. Yer couldn't get a bottle in Norrington with a club.
This town's prohibition. Want a room?" This last word was almost
shouted in my ear.
"Yes--one with a wood fire." I kept my temper.
"Front!"--this to a boy half asleep on a bench. "Take this bag to No.
37, and turn on the steam. Your turn next"--and he handed the pen to a
fresh arrival, who had walked up from the train.
No. 37 contained a full set of Michigan furniture, including a patent
wash-stand that folded up to look like a bookcase, smelt slightly of
varnish, and was as hot as a Pullman sleeper.