Part 7 (1/2)

The majority of the buildings were mere canvas-faced up for a few feet, perhaps, with sheet iron or flimsy boards; interspersed there were a few wooden structures, rough and unpainted; and whereas several of the housings were large, none was more than two stories--and when now and again I thought that I had glimpsed a substantial stone front a closer inspection told me that the stones were imitation, forming a veneer of the sheet iron or of stenciled pine. Indeed, not a few of the upper stories, viewed from an unfavorable angle, proved to be only thin parapets upstanding for a pretense of well-being. Behind them, nothing at all!

In the confusion of that which I took to be the main street because of the stores and piles of goods and the medley of signs, what with the hubbub from the many barkers for saloons and gambling games, the constant dodging among the pedestrians, vehicles and horses and dogs, in a thoroughfare that was innocent of sidewalk, I really had scant opportunity to gaze; certainly no opportunity as yet to get my bearings. My squat guide shuttled aside; a group of loafers gave us pa.s.sage, with sundry stares at me and quips for him; and I was ushered into a widely-open tent-building whose canvas sign depending above a narrow veranda declared: ”The Queen Hotel. Beds $3. Meals $1 each.”

Now as whitely powdered as any of the natives I stumbled across a single large room bordered at one side by a bar and a number of small tables (all well patronized), and was brought up at the counter, under the alert eyes of a clerk coatless, silk-s.h.i.+rted, diamond-scarfed, pomaded and slick-haired, waiting with register turned and pen extended.

My gnome heavily dropped my bag.

”Gent for you,” he presented.

”I wish a room and bath,” I said, as I signed.

”Bath is occupied. I'll put you down, Mr.----” and he glanced at the signature. ”Four dollars and four bits, please. Show the gentleman to Number Six, Shorty. That drummer's gone, isn't he?”

”You bet.”

”The bath is occupied?” I expostulated. ”How so? I wish a private bath.”

”Private? Yes, sir. All you've got to do is to close the door while you're in. n.o.body'll disturb you. But there are parties ahead of you. First come, first served.”

I persisted.

”Your runner--this gentleman, if I am not mistaken (and I indicated the gnome, who grinned from dusty face), distinctly said 'A bath for every room.'”

Bystanders had pushed nearer, to examine the register and then me. They laughed--nudged one another. Evidently I had a trace of green in my eye.

”Quite right, sir,” the clerk a.s.sented. ”So there is. A bath for every room and the best bath in town. Entirely private; fresh towel supplied.

Only one dollar and four bits. That, with lodging, makes four dollars and a half. If you please, sir.”

”In advance?” I remonstrated--the bath charge alone being monstrous.

”I see you're from the East. Yes, sir; we have to charge transients in advance. That is the rule, sir. You stay in Benton City for some time?”

”I am undetermined.”

”Of course, sir. Your own affair. Yes, sir. But we shall hope to make Benton pleasant for you. The greatest city in the West. Anything you want for pleasure or business you'll find right here.”

”The greatest city in the West--pleasure or business!” A bitter wave of homesickness welled into my throat as, conscious of the enveloping dust, the utter shams, the tawdriness, the alien unsympathetic onlookers, the suave but incisive manner of the clerk, the sense of having been ”done”

and through my own fault, I peeled a greenback from the folded packet in my purse and handed it over. Rather foolishly I intended that this display of funds should rebuke the finicky clerk; but he accepted without comment and sought for the change from the twenty.

”And how is old New York, suh?”

A hearty, florid, heavy-faced man, with singularly protruding fishy eyes and a tobacco-stained yellowish goatee underneath a loosely dropping lower lip, had stepped forward, his pudgy hand hospitably outstretched to me: a man in wide-brimmed dusty black hat, frayed and dusty but, in spots, s.h.i.+ny, black broadcloth frock coat spattered down the lapels, exceedingly soiled collar and s.h.i.+rt front and greasy flowing tie, and trousers tucked into cowhide boots.

I grasped the hand wonderingly. It enclosed mine with a soft pulpy squeeze; and lingered.

”As usual, when I last saw it, sir,” I responded. ”But I am from Albany.”

”Of course. Albany, the capital, a city to be proud of, suh. I welcome you, suh, to our new West, as a fellow-citizen.”

”You are from Albany?” I exclaimed.