ve some hot water for my father? He has a chill."

"Stove's out. No hot water in the house."

"Couldn't you heat some?"

"Now look here, miss. You come in here, asking for meals and rooms at
midnight, and you want a cut rate on everything, and I do what I can,
but enough's enough!"

The woman stalked out. Her husband popped up. "Mustn't mind the old
girl, lady. Got a grouch. Well, you can't blame her, in a way; when Bill
lit out, he done her out of four-bits! But I'll tell you!" he leered.
"You leave me the hot-water biznai, and I'll heat you some water
myself!"

"Thank you, but I won't trouble you. Good night."

Claire was surprised to find a warm, rather comfortable all-night lunch
room, called the Alaska Cafe, with a bright-eyed man of twenty-five in
charge. He nodded in a friendly way, and made haste with her order of
two ham-and-egg sandwiches. She felt adventurous. She polished her knife
and fork on a napkin, as she had seen people do in lunches along the
way. A crowd of three rubbed their noses against the front window to
stare at the strange girl in town, but she ignored them, and they
drifted away.

The lunchman was cordial: "At a hotel, ma'am? Which one? Gee, not the
Tavern?"

"Why yes. Is there another?"

"Sure. First-rate one, two blocks over, one up."

"The woman said the Tavern was the only hotel."

"Oh, she's an old sour-face. Don't mind her. Just bawl her out. What's
she charging you for a room?"

"Three dollars."

"Per each? Gee! Well, she sticks tourists anywheres from one buck to
three. Natives get by for fifty cents. She's pretty fierce, but she
ain't a patch on her husband. He comes from Spokane--nobody knows
why--guess he was run out. He takes some kind of dope, and he cheats at
rummy."

"But why does the town stand either of them? Why do you let them torture
innocent people? Why don't you put them in the insane hospital, where
they belong?"

"That's a good one!" her friend chuckled. But he saw it only as a joke.

She thought of moving her father to the good hotel, but she hadn't the
strength.

Claire Boltwood, of Brooklyn Heights, went through the shanty streets of
Pellago, Montana, at one A.M. carrying a sandwich in a paper bag which
had recently been used for salted peanuts, and a red rubber hot-water
bag filled with water at the Alaska Cafe. At the Tavern she hastened
past the office door. She made her father eat his sandwich; she teased
him and laughed at him till the h