On the afternoon of this same day Tom Delamere strolled into the hotel,
and soon gravitated to the bar, where he was a frequent visitor. Young
men of leisure spent much of their time around the hotel, and no small
part of it in the bar. Delamere had been to the club, but had avoided
the card-room. Time hanging heavy on his hands, he had sought the hotel
in the hope that some form of distraction might present itself.
"Have you heard the latest, Mr. Delamere?" asked the bartender, as he
mixed a cocktail for his customer.
"No, Billy; what is it?"
"There's to be a big cakewalk upstairs to-night. The No'the'n gentlemen
an' ladies who are down here to see about the new cotton fact'ry want to
study the nigger some more, and the boss has got up a cakewalk for 'em,
'mongst the waiters and chambermaids, with a little outside talent."
"Is it to be public?" asked Delamere.
"Oh, no, not generally, but friends of the house won't be barred out.
The clerk 'll fix it for you. Ransom, the head waiter, will be floor
manager."
Delamere was struck with a brilliant idea. The more he considered it,
the brighter it seemed. Another cocktail imparted additional brilliancy
to the conception. He had been trying, after a feeble fashion, to keep
his promise to Clara, and was really suffering from lack of excitement.
He left the bar-room, found the head waiter, held with him a short
conversation, and left in his intelligent and itching palm a piece of
money.
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