The “Perfesser” looked slightly startled, but nodded assent. “Very well; you are engaged. We shall have to hire an automobile.” “You got to see Sidewinder Crowfoot about that. He owns ’em all.” “Very well. Come to my room in an hour, when I have had a chance to remove the stains of travel. By the way, where is the hotel? I wrote to engage rooms, but see no hostelry.” “Right yere under your nose, Perfesser. Hassayamp is takin’ in the mail—thar he is. —Hey, Hassayamp! Meet my friend the Perfesser. This is Hassayamp Foster, Perfesser. The Perfesser’s a bug-hunter, Hassayamp, and wants a bed.” “My beds won’t help him none,” said Hassayamp, a lean and melancholic individual who came forward, chewing a ragged mustache. “I got a room for you, Puffesser.” “With bath,” said Tompkins. Hassayamp halted and blinked. “Bath? Good gosh, we don’t allow no washin’ in the springs this time o’ year! Got to use a cream separator to git enough drinkin’ water. Rains are over, but they aint filled the springs yet—not for another two weeks, I reckon.” “I refer, sir, to a bathroom attached,” explained Tompkins. “Well, there aint none,” said Hassayamp. “Whar’s your grips?” Two enormous and bulging suitcases, each as big as a small trunk, were in the stage boot, and Hassayamp hauled them out with antagonistic air, and led his victim away. The Stovepipe House was built for desert use, not for looks. The front building contained post office and hotel dining-room; and passing through this, Tompkins descended the rear steps and found two long adobe structures stretching in front of him, each divided into cells; between them drooped some parched flowers and shrubs. He was shown to his cell, a room twelve by twelve, furnished with all the comforts of home. “Don’t do no cussing nor singing after midnight,” warned Hassayamp as he shoved in the two enormous grips, “’cause a lady’s got the next room. When the bell rings for supper, you show up prompt; my old woman’s liable to be real ornery if folks don’t ’predate hot vittles. Two-fifty a day. What did you go tangle up with that old desert rat Sagebrush for? I’d ha’ been glad to pilot you around my own self. Int’rested in mines, are you? Don’t let him show you no specimens, Puffesser. That old rascal would salt hell and unload it on a pilgrim. Don’t you trust nobody around here but me. I got two quartz lodes and a placer location that’ll make your eyes water—” “Not interested in mines, thanks,” said Tompkins, cutting short the flow of talk. “If I saw a good chicken-ranch, I might invest, but not otherwise. Ever hear of anyone around these parts by the name of Ramsay? Alec Ramsay. Might have passed through here a year or so ago.” “Nope,” said Hassayamp, shaking his mustaches. “Well, if ye want anything, come and holler for it.”