drinking-room. Still perfect, of a lovely azure against the dark walls, the magic carpet floated on. Kirke was in good humour. In another moment the 'bus would arrive. He would see what passengers there were, and then saunter into the bar with Mr. Fowler, the owner of the 'bus. Fowler probably would treat him. He usually did. And if not, well, he would have one anyway.
The horses' hoofs made a tremendous clatter on the pavement. The driver's voice was raised in hoarse "whoas" and "backs." The wheels crashed with a jar against the high kerb which always made one wonder how the 'bus (to say nothing of the passengers) withstood it. The front door was thrown open, and the jangle of harness, as the horses threw their heads about to ease their wrenched mouths, the depositing of luggage, and the clink of coin could be heard. Kirke put his pipe in his pocket and approached the door. Three commercial travellers entered, two of them young and alert, one elderly, with an expression of mild boredom. They turned into the office to register and choose sample-rooms. Kirke looked at them keenly. He had seen all three before. The elderly man nodded to him with a friendly air.
"It's a fine nicht," said Kirke.
Arthur Crosby, old Colonel Crosby's youngest son, came in hurriedly. He pushed past Kirke and entered the bar. Kirke threw an indignant look after him. "Young upstairt," he muttered. He took off the black bowler hat which he wore to one side, and passed a bony hand over his sleek blond head as the sound of women's voices came from the porch. Old Country voices they were.
The women were in the hotel now, followed by old
