Susan finished the cakes, paid the forty cents and
prepared to depart. "I'm looking for a hotel," said she to the
restaurant man, "one where they'll take me in at this time, but
one that's safe not a dive."
"Right across the square there's a Salvation Army shelter--very
good--clean. I Don't know of any other place for a lady."
"There's a hotel on the next corner," put in the butcher,
suspending the violent smacking and sipping which attended his
taking rolls and coffee. "It ain't neither the one thing nor
the other. It's clean and cheap, and they'll let you behave if
you want to."
"That's all I ask," said the girl. "Thank you." And she
departed, after an exchange of friendly glances with the
restaurant man. "I feel lots better," said she.
"It was a good breakfast," replied he.
"That was only part. Good luck!"
"Same to you, lady. Call again. Try my chops."
At the corner the butcher had indicated Susan found the usual
Raines Law hotel, adjunct to a saloon and open to all comers,
however "transient." But she took the butcher's word for it,
engaged a dollar-and-a-half room from the half-asleep clerk,
was shown to it by a colored bellboy who did not bother to wake
up. It was a nice little room with barely space enough for a
bed, a bureau, a stationary washstand, a chair and a small
radiator. As she undressed by the light of a sad gray dawn,
she examined her dress to see how far it needed repair and how
far it might be repaired.
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