"Buck up here, tenderfoot," he advised good-naturedly. "This here is 'The Irma'; and, if you've got any better hotels in the East, why, don't tell Colonel Cody of it, at any rate, for 'The Irma' is the Colonel's pet." Then Ross found himself in the foyer of "The Irma," the hotel that "Buffalo Bill" erected to honor his home town, which bears his name, a comfortable, modernly equipped house decorated with hundreds of paintings, water colors, and etchings, all picturing the scenes in Colonel Cody's life as represented in his "Wild West Show." Sandy had registered in advance of Ross, and stepped to a swinging door at the end of the counter. There he stopped and turned back. "Come on and have a drink, tenderfoot," he invited good-naturedly. Ross was writing his name, and did not look up. "No, thank you," he returned quietly. "I don't drink." Several men lounging about glanced curiously at the boy. Sandy thrust his hands into his pockets, and, leaning against the counter, looked at him in open interest. After Ross had registered, he drew a nickel from his pocket and laid it on the counter. "A two-cent stamp, please." The clerk, impatient with the deliberation of his movements, cast the nickel hurriedly into the cash drawer and handed out a stamp. Ross waited for the change, while three men behind him pressed forward to the register. Sandy grinned broadly. "There's no change comin', tenderfoot," he said with a chuckle. "You've reached a land where nothin' less'n a nickel can be got outside a post-office." "Pennies don't grow in the Rocky Mountains," added the clerk in a tone which plainly invited the boy to move on. The tone brought the blood to Ross's cheek. His eyes suddenly narrowed. His head went up, and his voice quickened and deepened. "Very well, then," he returned coolly, "give me another two-cent stamp and a postal card." Sandy patted his thigh softly. "You'll pass, tenderfoot," he murmured. "No flies on you--at least, they don't stick there." Ross took his trophies, and retired to a desk beside the swinging door. Just as he had finished directing a letter to his Aunt Anne he noticed that his new friend was waiting again beside the counter. When the last man had registered, Sandy pulled the book toward him and leaned over it. Suddenly he bent lower, and jabbed hard on the page with his forefinger. When he turned, all the good humor had dropped out of his face. With a glance of keen interest at the boy beside the desk he passed on into the barroom. So marked was the change in his manner that Ross paused in the act of dipping his pen into the ink-well. "Guess I'll see who Sandy is," he thought, and, dropping his pen, crossed to the book. The name stared up at him in big bold letters directly above his own, but he had not noticed it at the time of registering. _"Allen McKenzie, Miners' Camp."_ Ross pursed his thin lips, and nearly whistled aloud as he returned to his desk.