Jones sharply. "Tell Mr.
Bacon to step up to his room and take the order."
"All right, old chap,--nothing easier," said Mr. Dillingford genially.
"Just climb up the elevator, Mr. Barnes. We do this to get up an
appetite. When did you leave New York?"
Taking up a lighted kerosene lamp and the heavy pack, Mr. Clarence
Dillingford led the way up the stairs. He was a chubby individual of
indefinite age. At a glance you would have said he was under twenty-
one; a second look would have convinced you that he was nearer forty-
one. He was quite shabby, but chin and cheek were as clean as that of
a freshly scrubbed boy. He may not have changed his collar for days
but he lived up to the traditions of his profession by shaving twice
every twenty-four hours.
Depositing Barnes' pack on a chair in the little bedroom at the end of
the hall upstairs, he favoured the guest with a perfectly unabashed
grin.
"I'm not doing this to oblige old man Jones, you know. I won't attempt
to deceive you. I'm working out a daily bread-bill. Chuck three times
a day and a bed to sleep in, that's what I'm doing it for, so don't
get it into your head that I applied for the job. Let me take a look
at you.
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