"It"s allowed, at any rate. No one can complain if I choose to live a little plainer. When it pays in the way of business to stop at a big hotel, I do so. Of course, your boss pays your expenses?"
"Yes."
"Then you"d better do as I do--put the difference in your own pocket."
"I shouldn"t like to do that."
"Why not? It is evident you are a new traveler, or you would know that it is a regular thing."
Luke did not answer, but he adhered to his own view. He meant to keep a careful account of his disburs.e.m.e.nts and report to Mr.
Armstrong, without the addition of a single penny. He had no doubt that he should be paid liberally for his time, and he didn"t care to make anything by extra means.
The Ottawa House was nearly a mile and a half distant. It was on one of the lower streets, near the lake. It was a plain building with accommodations for perhaps a hundred and fifty guests. This would be large for a country town or small city, but it indicated a hotel of the third cla.s.s in Chicago. I may as well say here, however, that it was a perfectly respectable and honestly conducted hotel, notwithstanding it was selected by Mr. Coleman, who could not with truth be complimented so highly. I will also add that Mr. Coleman"s selection of the Ottawa, in place of a more pretentious hotel, arose from the fear that in the latter he might meet someone who knew him, and who would warn Luke of his undesirable reputation.
Jumping out of the hack, J. Madison Coleman led the way into the hotel, and, taking pen in hand, recorded his name in large, flourishing letters--as from New York.
Then he handed the pen to Luke, who registered himself also from New York.
"Give us a room together," he said to the clerk.
Luke did not altogether like this arrangement, but hardly felt like objecting. He did not wish to hurt the feelings of J. Madison Coleman, yet he considered that, having known him only six hours, it was somewhat imprudent to allow such intimacy. But he who hesitates is lost, and before Luke had made up his mind whether to object or not, he was already part way upstairs--there was no elevator--following the bellboy, who carried his luggage.
The room, which was on the fourth floor, was of good size, and contained two beds. So far so good. After the ride he wished to wash and put on clean clothes. Mr. Coleman did not think this necessary, and saying to Luke that he would find him downstairs, he left our hero alone.
"I wish I had a room alone," thought Luke. "I should like it much better, but I don"t want to offend Coleman. I"ve got eighty dollars in my pocketbook, and though, of course, he is all right, I don"t want to take any risks."
On the door he read the regulations of the hotel. One item attracted his attention. It was this:
"The proprietors wish distinctly to state that they will not be responsible for money or valuables unless left with the clerk to be deposited in the safe."
Luke had not been accustomed to stopping at hotels, and did not know that this was the usual custom. It struck him, however, as an excellent arrangement, and he resolved to avail himself of it.
When he went downstairs he didn"t see Mr. Coleman.
"Your friend has gone out," said the clerk. "He wished me to say that he would be back in half an hour."
"All right," answered Luke. "Can I leave my pocketbook with you?"
"Certainly."
The clerk wrapped it up in a piece of brown paper and put it away in the safe at the rear of the office, marking it with Luke"s name and the number of his room.
"There, that"s safe!" thought Luke, with a feeling of relief. He had reserved about three dollars, as he might have occasion to spend a little money in the course of the evening. If he were robbed of this small amount it would not much matter.
A newsboy came in with an evening paper. Luke bought a copy and sat down on a bench in the office, near a window. He was reading busily, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Looking up, he saw that it was his roommate, J. Madison Coleman.
"I"ve just been taking a little walk," he said, "and now I am ready for dinner. If you are, too, let us go into the dining-room."
Luke was glad to accept this proposal, his long journey having given him a good appet.i.te.
CHAPTER XXVII
COLEMAN ACTS SUSPICIOUSLY
After dinner, Coleman suggested a game of billiards, but as this was a game with which Luke was not familiar, he declined the invitation, but went into the billiard-room and watched a game between his new acquaintance and a stranger. Coleman proved to be a very good player, and won the game. After the first game Coleman called for drinks, and invited Luke to join them.
"Thank you," answered Luke, "but I never drink."
"Oh, I forgot; you"re a good boy," said Coleman. "Well, I"m no Puritan. Whisky straight for me."
Luke was not in the least troubled by the sneer conveyed in Coleman"s words. He was not altogether ent.i.tled to credit for refusing to drink, having not the slightest taste for strong drink of any kind.
About half-past seven Coleman put up his cue, saying: "That"ll do for me. Now, Luke, suppose we take a walk."
Luke was quite ready, not having seen anything of Chicago as yet.
They strolled out, and walked for an hour. Coleman, to do him justice, proved an excellent guide, and pointed out whatever they pa.s.sed which was likely to interest his young companion. But at last he seemed to be tired.
"It"s only half-past eight," he said, referring to his watch.
"I"ll drop into some theater. It is the best way to finish up the evening."
"Then I"ll go back to the hotel," said Luke. "I feel tired, and mean to go to bed early."
"You"d better spend an hour or two in the theater with me."
"No, I believe not. I prefer a good night"s rest."
"Do you mind my leaving you?"
"Not at all."
"Can you find your way back to the hotel alone?"
"If you"ll direct me, I think I can find it."
The direction was given, and Coleman was turning off, when, as if it had just occurred to him, he said: "By the way, can you lend me a five? I"ve nothing less than a fifty-dollar bill with me, and I don"t want to break that."
Luke congratulated himself now that he had left the greater part of his money at the hotel.
"I can let you have a dollar," he said.
Coleman shrugged his shoulders, but answered: "All right; let me have the one."
Luke did so, and felt now that he had more than repaid the fifty cents his companion had paid for hack fare. Though Coleman had professed to have nothing less than fifty, Luke knew that he had changed a five-dollar bill at the hotel in paying for the drinks, and must have over four dollars with him in small bills and change.