With this opulence and splendor, these
creeds, classes, egotisms, that streamed through Romper on the rails
day after day, they had no color in common.
As if the displayed delights of such a blue hotel were not
sufficiently enticing, it was Scully's habit to go every morning and
evening to meet the leisurely trains that stopped at Romper and work
his seductions upon any man that he might see wavering, gripsack in
hand.
One morning, when a snow-crusted engine dragged its long string of
freight cars and its one passenger coach to the station, Scully
performed the marvel of catching three men. One was a shaky and
quick-eyed Swede, with a great shining cheap valise; one was a tall
bronzed cowboy, who was on his way to a ranch near the Dakota line;
one was a little silent man from the East, who didn't look it, and
didn't announce it. Scully practically made them prisoners. He was
so nimble and merry and kindly that each probably felt it would be the
height of brutality to try to escape. They trudged off over the
creaking board sidewalks in the wake of the eager little Irishman.
He wore a heavy fur cap squeezed tightly down on his head. It caused
his two red ears to stick out stiffly, as if they were made of tin.
At last, Scully, elaborately, with boisterous hospitality, conducted
them through the portals of the blue hotel. The room which they
entered was small.
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