At the end of the file Irene noticed a gentleman, clad in a perfectly-fitting rough traveling suit, with the inevitable crocodile hand-bag and tightly-rolled umbrella, who made no effort to enroll ahead of any one else, but having procured some letters from the post-office clerk, patiently waited till the rest were turned away, and then put down his name.  He might as well have written it in his hat.  The deliberation of the man, who appeared to be an old traveler, though probably not more than thirty years of age, attracted Irene’s attention, and she could not help hearing the dialogue that followed.

“What can you do for me?”

“Nothing,” said the clerk.

“Can’t you stow me away anywhere?  It is Saturday, and very inconvenient for me to go any farther.”

“Cannot help that.  We haven’t an inch of room.”

“Well, where can I go?”

“You can go to Baltimore.  You can go to Washington; or you can go to Richmond this afternoon.  You can go anywhere.”

“Couldn’t I,” said the stranger, with the same deliberation—­“wouldn’t you let me go to Charleston?”

“Why,” said the clerk, a little surprised, but disposed to accommodate —­“why, yes, you can go to Charleston.  If you take at once the boat you have just left, I guess you can catch the train at Norfolk.”

As the traveler turned and called a porter to reship his baggage, he was met by a lady, who greeted him with the cordiality of an old acquaintance and a volley of questions.

“Why, Mr. King, this is good luck.  When did you come? have you a good room?  What, no, not going?”

Mr. King explained that he had been a resident of Hampton Roads just fifteen minutes, and that, having had a pretty good view of the place, he was then making his way out of the door to Charleston, without any breakfast, because there was no room in the inn.

“Oh, that never’ll do.  That cannot be permitted,” said his engaging friend, with an air of determination.  “Besides, I want you to go with us on an excursion today up the James and help me chaperon a lot of young ladies.  No, you cannot go away.”

And before Mr. Stanhope King—­for that was the name the traveler had inscribed on the register—­knew exactly what had happened, by some mysterious power which women can exercise even in a hotel, when they choose, he found himself in possession of a room, and was gayly breakfasting with a merry party at a little round table in the dining-room.

“He appears to know everybody,” was Mrs. Benson’s comment to Irene, as she observed his greeting of one and another as the guests tardily came down to breakfast.  “Anyway, he’s a genteel-looking party.  I wonder if he belongs to Sotor, King and Co., of New York?”

“Oh, mother,” began Irene, with a quick glance at the people at the next table; and then, “if he is a genteel party, very likely he’s a drummer.  The drummers know everybody.”