Randall Parrish

Beth Norvell Randall Parrish

There were nine altogether in the party registering. This number included the manager, who, both on and off the stage, quite successfully impersonated the villain-a rather heavy-jawed, middle-aged fellow, of foreign appearance, with coarse, gruff voice; three representatives of thegentler sex; a child of eight, exact species unknown, wrapped up like a mummy; and four males. Beyond doubt the most notable member of the troupe was the comedian "star," Mr. T. MacreadyLane, whose well-known cognomen must even now awaken happy histrionic memoriesthroughout the western circuit. The long night's ride from their previous stand, involving as it didtwo changes of trains, had proven exceedingly wearisome; and the young woman in the rathernatty blue toque, the collar of her long gray coat turned up in partial concealment of her face, was so utterly fatigued that she refused to wait for a belated breakfast, and insisted upon being atonce directed to her room. There was a substantial bolt decorating the inside of the door, but, rendered careless by sheer exhaustion of both mind and body, she forgot everything except herdesire for immediate rest, dropped her wraps upon the only chair visible, and flung herself, fullydressed, upon the bed. Her cheek had barely pressed the hard pillow before she was sleeping likea tired child. It must have been an hour later when Winston drove in from Flat Rock, shook the powderysnow from off his long fur overcoat, his cheeks still tingling from the sharp wind, and, withfingers yet stiffened by cold, wrote his name carelessly across the lower line of the dilapidatedhotel register."Can you let me have the same room, Tom?" he questioned familiarly of the manornamenting the high stool behind the d