The first one out of the coach was the husband of the brunette matron, and, proceeding under instructions, he waited neither for luggage nor women folk, but hurried straight into the Tutt House. The other man would have been neck and neck with him in the race, if it had not been that he paused to seize two suitcases and had the misfortune to drop one, which burst open and scattered a choice assortment of lingerie from one end of the dingy coach to the other. In the confusion of rescuing the fluffery, the owner of the suitcase had to sacrifice her hauteur and help her husband and son block up the aisle, while the other matron had the ineffable satisfaction of being _kept waiting_, at last being enabled to say, sweetly and with the most polite consideration: “Will you kindly allow me to pass?” The blonde matron raised up and swept her skirts back perfectly flat. She was pale but collected. Her husband was pink but collected. Her son was crimson and uncollected. The brunette daughter could not have found an eye anywhere in his countenance as she rustled out after her mother. “I do hope that Belmont has been able to secure choice quarters,” the triumphing matron remarked as her daughter joined her on the ground. “This place looked so very small that there can scarcely be more than one comfortable suite in it.” It was a vital thrust. Only a splendidly cultivated self-control prevented the blonde matron from retaliating upon the unfortunate who had muddled things. Even so, her eyes spoke whole shelves of volumes. The man who first reached the register wrote, in a straight black scrawl, “J. Belmont Van Kamp, wife, and daughter.” There being no space left for his address, he put none down. “I want three adjoining rooms, en suite if possible,” he demanded. “Three!” exclaimed Uncle Billy, scratching his head. “Won’t two do ye? I ain’t got but six bedrooms in th’ house. Me an’ Marg’t sleeps in one, an’ we’re a-gittin’ too old fer a shake-down on th’ floor. I’ll have t’ save one room fer th’ driver, an’ that leaves four. You take two now—-” Mr. Van Kamp cast a hasty glance out of the window, The other man was getting out of the coach. His own wife was stepping on the porch. “What do you ask for meals and lodging until this time to-morrow?” he interrupted. The decisive moment had arrived. Uncle Billy drew a deep breath. “Two dollars a head!” he defiantly announced. There! It was out! He wished Margaret had stayed to hear him say it. The guest did not seem to be seriously shocked, and Uncle Billy was beginning to be sorry he had not said three dollars, when Mr. Van Kamp stopped the landlord’s own breath. “I’ll give you fifteen dollars for the three best rooms in the house,” he calmly said, and Landlord Tutt gasped as the money fluttered down under his nose.