Under the Big Dipper

to speak; but in this “hotel”—faugh!—Morton’s lips twisted themselves into an expression of disgust.

Still, it was an ill wind that did not blow some good. The very primitiveness of the place would protect him from an espionage which might prove to be far more inconvenient than the discomfort. And he was not just now interested in offering suggestions for running model hotels. He was about to make up his mind to risk a descent to the tap-room, for he was very hungry, when a gentle knock sounded on the door. Taking the battered candlestick in one hand and cautiously opening the door, he peered into the dark stair-landing. In the flickering light, the shadow of a man stretching along the deal boards of the hall seemed gigantic. But the feeling aroused by the size was quickly dispelled by the voice which emanated from the person. In a low, whining and apologizing tone, and in a language which was intended for German, the man inquired for the

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