drink a glass of beer with a cigar.
You can have a drink at the bar, and then go and sit down in the hall
among the crowd.

Life in an American hotel is an alternation of the cellular system
during the night and of the gregarious system during the day, an
alternation of the penitentiary systems carried out at Philadelphia and
at Auburn.

It is not in the bedroom, either, that you must seek anything to cheer
you. The bed is good, but only for the night. The room is perfectly
nude. Not even "Napoleon's Farewell to his Soldiers at Fontainebleau" as
in France, or "Strafford walking to the Scaffold" as in England. Not
that these pictures are particularly cheerful, still they break the
monotony of the wall paper. Here the only oases in the brown or gray
desert are cautions.

First of all, a notice that, in a cupboard near the window, you will
find some twenty yards of coiled rope which, in case of fire, you are to
fix to a hook outside the window. The rest is guessed. You fix the rope,
and--you let yourself go. From a sixth, seventh, or eighth story, the
prospect is lively. Another caution informs you of all that you must not
do, such as your own washing in the bedroom. Another warns you that if,
on retiring, you put your boots outside the door, you do so at your own
risk and peril. Another is posted near the door, close to an electric
bell. With a little care and practice, you will be able to carry out the
instructions printed thereon. The only thing wonderful about the
contrivance is that the servants never make mistakes.

[Illustration: THE HOTEL FIRE ESCAPE.]

Press once for ice-water.
" twice " hall boy.
" three times " fireman.
" four " " chambermaid.
" five " " hot water.
" six " " ink and writing materials.
" seven " " baggage.
" eight " " messenger.

In some hotels I have seen the list carried to number twelve.

Another notice tells you what the proprietor's responsibilities are, and
at what time the meals take place. Now this last notice is the most
important of all. Woe to you if you forget it! For if you should present
yourself one minute after the dining-room door is closed, no human
consideration would get it open for you. Supplications, arguments would
be of no avail. Not even money.

"What do you mean?" some old-fashioned European will exclaim. "When the
_table d'hote_ is over, of course you cannot