But they always have. Good-
night, son. Don't let the Bisons bite you. I'll be up at seven."
But it was just 6:30 A.M. when Emma McChesney turned the little bend
in the stairway that led to the office. The scrub-woman was still in
possession. The cigar-counter girl had not yet made her appearance.
There was about the place a general air of the night before. All but
the night clerk. He was as spruce and trim, and alert and smooth-
shaven as only a night clerk can be after a night's vigil.
"'Morning!" Emma McChesney called to him. She wore blue serge, and a
smart fall hat. The late autumn morning was not crisper and sunnier
than she.
"Good-morning, Mrs. McChesney," returned Mr. Sims, sonorously. "Have a
good night's sleep? I hope the kitchen noises didn't wake you."
Emma McChesney paused with her hand on the door. "Kitchen? Oh, no. I
could sleep through a vaudeville china-juggling act. But---what an
extraordinarily unpleasant-looking man that housekeeper's husband must
have been."
That November morning boasted all those qualities which November-
morning writers are so prone to bestow upon the month.
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