"Yes, there is," replied Reba.
"Shut up, you fellers," he ordered, turning toward the bar; then approached the screen door and opened it. He looked down at Reba in frank amazement. Then, "Party of you?" he asked, and looked past her, toward the street.
"No, I'm alone," said Reba. "I missed the last train to Boston, and so—I saw this was a hotel, and Could I have a room?" she broke off.
"Well, now," replied the man, still staring in amazement. "I guess so. Come right in, miss. Come right in. Guess we can fix you up. Lost the last train, did yer? Well now! That was too bad. Come into the office."
Reba followed her escort into a bare little room with a few settees (the kind they used in the vestry in the Congregational Church at home) placed around the edge of it, and one or two brown mottled spittoons in front of the settees. In one corner of the room there was a high desk with a stool drawn up to it. The man placed the lamp on the desk, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and surveyed Reba.
"So you want a room, miss, do yer?"
"Yes. Haven't you got one? For if you haven't" (again Reba heard a shrill laugh from the bar-room) "I'll go. I'll go right off."
"Oh, we got one all right," reassured the fat man. "We've got one—real nice one. Too bad yer lost yer train," he remarked, still staring frankly at Reba.
"Yes," she acknowledged briefly.
The fat man scratched his head reflectively. "'Course we like our guests to register usually." He squinted up his eyes at Reba. "Any objections?"
