He took her bags and,
depositing them in a wagon, he pointed up the wide street: "One block up
an' turn. Hotel Wetherford." Then he drove off. Carley followed, carrying
her small satchel. A cold wind, driving the dust, stung her face as she
crossed the street to a high sidewalk that extended along the block. There
were lights in the stores and on the corners, yet she seemed impressed by a
dark, cold, windy bigness. Many people, mostly men, were passing up and
down, and there were motor cars everywhere. No one paid any attention to
her. Gaining the corner of the block, she turned, and was relieved to see
the hotel sign. As she entered the lobby a clicking of pool balls and the
discordant rasp of a phonograph assailed her ears. The expressman set down
her bags and left Carley standing there. The clerk or proprietor was
talking from behind his desk to several men, and there were loungers in the
lobby. The air was thick with tobacco smoke. No one paid any attention to
Carley until at length she stepped up to the desk and interrupted the
conversation there.
"Is this a hotel?" she queried, brusquely.
The shirt-sleeved individual leisurely turned and replied, "Yes, ma'am."
And Carley said: "No one would recognize it by the courtesy shown.
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