“Will you kindly allow me to pass?”

The blonde matron raised up and swept her skirts back perfectly flat.  She was pale but collected.  Her husband was pink but collected.  Her son was crimson and uncollected.  The brunette daughter could not have found an eye anywhere in his countenance as she rustled out after her mother.

“I do hope that Belmont has been able to secure choice quarters,” the triumphing matron remarked as her daughter joined her on the ground.  “This place looked so very small that there can scarcely be more than one comfortable suite in it.”

It was a vital thrust.  Only a splendidly cultivated self-control prevented the blonde matron from retaliating upon the unfortunate who had muddled things.  Even so, her eyes spoke whole shelves of volumes.

The man who first reached the register wrote, in a straight black scrawl, “J.  Belmont Van Kamp, wife, and daughter.”  There being no space left for his address, he put none down.

“I want three adjoining rooms, en suite if possible,” he demanded.

“Three!” exclaimed Uncle Billy, scratching his head.  “Won’t two do ye?  I ain’t got but six bedrooms in th’ house.  Me an’ Marg’t sleeps in one, an’ we’re a-gittin’ too old fer a shake-down on th’ floor.  I’ll have t’ save one room fer th’ driver, an’ that leaves four.  You take two now—–­”

Mr. Van Kamp cast a hasty glance out of the window, The other man was getting out of the coach.  His own wife was stepping on the porch.

“What do you ask for meals and lodging until this time to-morrow?” he interrupted.

The decisive moment had arrived.  Uncle Billy drew a deep breath.

“Two dollars a head!” he defiantly announced.  There!  It was out!  He wished Margaret had stayed to hear him say it.

The guest did not seem to be seriously shocked, and Uncle Billy was beginning to be sorry he had not said three dollars, when Mr. Van Kamp stopped the landlord’s own breath.

“I’ll give you fifteen dollars for the three best rooms in the house,” he calmly said, and Landlord Tutt gasped as the money fluttered down under his nose.

“Jis’ take yore folks right on up, Mr. Kamp,” said Uncle Billy, pouncing on the money.  “Th’ rooms is th’ three right along th’ hull front o’ th’ house.  I’ll be up and make on a fire in a minute.  Jis’ take th’ Jonesville Banner an’ th’ Uticky Clarion along with ye.”

As the swish of skirts marked the passage of the Van Kamps up the wide hall stairway, the other party swept into the room.

The man wrote, in a round flourish, “Edward Eastman Ellsworth, wife, and son.”

“I’d like three choice rooms, en suite,” he said.

“Gosh!” said Uncle Billy, regretfully.  “That’s what Mr. Kamp wanted, fust off, an’ he got it.  They hain’t but th’ little room over th’ kitchen left.  I’ll have to put you an’ your wife in that, an’ let your boy sleep with th’ driver.”