A Swell-Looking Babe

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He had dreamed about her. Now, waking to the sweaty southern night, he found both arms clasped around his pillow, the cloth wet with saliva where his mouth had pressed against it, and he flung it away from him with a mixture of disgust and disappointment Some babe, he thought drowsily, his hand moving from bed lamp to alarm clock to cigarettes. A dream boat – and that's the way he'd better leave her. Right in the land of dreams. He had to keep the money coming in. He had to keep out of trouble. And he had been sternly advised, at the time of his employment by the, Hotel Manton, that bellboys who attempted intimacies with lady guests invariably landed in serious trouble.

"This is what they call a tight hotel," the superintendent of service had explained. "A hooker never gets past the room clerk. Or if she does, she doesn't stay long and neither does he. It's' just good business, get me, Rhodes? A guest may not be everything he should be himself but he doesn't want to pay upwards of ten dollars a day for a room in a whore house."

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