"No, not now. I would like you to send to my room in half an hour a broiled chicken, some celery, and any vegetable which you can get ready--and be good enough to put a pint of Burgundy"---- I didn't get any further. Something in his manner attracted me. I had not looked at him with any degree of interest before. He had been merely a medium for trunk check, room key, and ice water--nothing more. Now I did. I saw a young man--a mean-looking young man--with a narrow, squeezed face, two flat glass eyes sewed in with red cotton, and a disastrous complexion. His hair was brushed like a barber's, with a scooping curl over the forehead; his neck was long and thin--so long that his apple looked over his collar's edge. This collar ran down to a white shirt decorated with a gold pin, the whole terminating in a low-cut velvet vest. "Supper at seven," he said. This, too, came with a jerk. "Yes, I know, but I haven't eaten anything since breakfast, and don't want to wait until"---- "Ain't nuthin' cooked 'tween meals. Supper at seven." "Can't I get"---- "Yer can't get nuthin' until supper-time, and yer won't get no Burgundy then. Yer couldn't get a bottle in Norrington with a club. This town's prohibition. Want a room?" This last word was almost shouted in my ear. "Yes--one with a wood fire." I kept my temper. "Front!"--this to a boy half asleep on a bench. "Take this bag to No. 37, and turn on the steam. Your turn next"--and he handed the pen to a fresh arrival, who had walked up from the train. No. 37 contained a full set of Michigan furniture, including a patent wash-stand that folded up to look like a bookcase, smelt slightly of varnish, and was as hot as a Pullman sleeper. I threw up all the windows; came down and tackled the clerk again. "Is there a restaurant near by?" "Next block above. Nichols." He never looked up--just kept on chewing the toothpick. "Is there another hotel here?" Even a worm will turn. "No." That settled it. I didn't know any inhabitant--not even a committeeman. It was the West Norrington Arms or the street. So I started for Nichols. By that time I could have eaten the shingles off the church. Nichols proved to be a one-and-a-half-story house with a glass door, a calico curtain, and a jingle bell. Inside was a cake shop, presided over by a thin woman in a gingham dress and black lace cap and wig. In the rear stood a marble-top table with iron legs. This made it a restaurant. "Can you get me something to eat? Steak, ham and eggs--anything?" I had fallen in my desires. She looked me all over. "Well, I'm 'mazin' sorry, but I guess you'll have to excuse us; we're just bakin', and this is our busy day. S'mother time we should like to, but to-day"---- I closed the door and was in the street again. I had no time for lengthy discussions that didn't lead to something tangible and eatable.