ulets, which the flies
were licking up, spreading like a spider's legs. There was nobody in the
office to receive the traveler's application for quarters, but evidence
of somebody in the remote parts of the house, whence came the sound of a
voice more penetrating than musical, raised in song.

With her apurn pinned round her,
He took her for a swan,
But oh and a-las, it was poor Pol-ly Bawn.

So she sang, the words of the ancient ballad cutting through the
partition like a saw. There was a nasal quality in them, as if the
singer were moved to tears by the pathos of Poor Polly's end. The
traveler laid a finger on the little bell that stood on the cigar case,
sending his alarm through the house.

The song ceased, the blue door with DINING-ROOM in pink across its
panels, shut against the flies, opened with sudden jerk, as if by a
petulant hand. There appeared one who might have been Polly Bawn
herself, taken by the white apron that shrouded her figure from
shoulders to floor. She stood a moment in the door, seeing that it was a
stranger, half closing that gay portal to step behind it and give her
hair that swift little adjustment which, with women the world over, is
the most essential part of the toilet. She appeared smiling then,
somewhat abashed and coy, a fair short girl with a nice figure and
pretty, sophisticated face, auburn curls dangling long at her ears, a
precise row of bangs coming down to her eyebrows. She was a pink and
white little lady, quick on foot, quicker of the blue eyes which
measured the waiting guest from dusty feet to dusty hat in the glance
that flashed over him in business-like brevity.

"Was you wishin' a room?" she inquired.

"If you can accommodate me."

"Register," she said, in voice of command, whirling the book about. At
the same time she discovered the forgotten confection, which she removed
to the top of the cigar case with an annoyed ejaculation under her
breath that sounded rather strong. She applied her apron to the page,
not helping it much, spreading the brown paste rather than removing it.

"You'll have to skip three or four lines, mister, unless you've got a
'delible pencil."

"No, I haven't. I'll write down here where it's dry."

And there the traveler wrote, the girl looking on sharply, spelling the
letters with silently moving lips as the pen trailed them:

Calvin Morgan, Des Moines, Ia.

"In and out, or regular?" the girl asked, twisting