The stranger under discussion was now giving some directions to a porter
regarding his luggage. This he did with that peculiar readiness, or
sleight, so to call it, which belongs to none but the veteran traveler.
A moment later he came up the wooden steps of the hotel, cast a
comprehensive but apparently indifferent glance over the group of guests
and passed into the hall, where they heard him say to the boy in
waiting: "My room is 24."
"That is the reserved room," remarked two or three persons at once.
Great expectations hung about room 24; much guessing had been indulged
in considering who was to be the happy and exalted person chosen to
occupy it. Now he had arrived, an utter stranger to them all. Everybody
looked inquiry.
"Who can he be?"
"It must be Mark Twain," suggested little Mrs. Philpot, of Memphis.
"Oh, no; Mark Twain is tall, and very handsome; I know Mark," said
Crane.
"How strange!" ejaculated Miss Moyne, and when everybody laughed, she
colored a little and added hastily:
"I didn't mean that it was strange that Mr. Crane should know Mr. Twain,
but----"
They drowned her voice with their laughter and hand-clapping.
They were not always in this very light mood at Hotel Helicon, but just
now they all felt in a trivial vein. It was as if the new guest had
brought a breath of frivolous humor along with him and had blown it over
them as he passed by.
Room 24 was the choice one of Hotel Helicon. Every guest wanted it, on
account of its convenience, its size and the superb view its windows
afforded; but from the first it had been reserved for this favored
individual whose arrival added greater mystery to the matter.
As the sun disappeared behind the western mountains, and the great gulf
of the valley became a sea of purplish gloom, conversation clung in half
whispers to the subject who meantime was arraying himself in evening
dress for dinner, posing before the large mirror in room 24 and smiling
humorously at himself as one who, criticising his own foibles, still
holds to them with a fortitude almost Christian.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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