Ernest Crosby, Garrison the non-resistant

[120] watched a thunderstorm. At one moment it would be raging outside of my door; then it would gradually move along, the explosions and crashes becoming less distinct until the storm center passed quite out of my horizon, the unhappy guest having reached a distant part of the hotel. Then just as I was dozing off, I would hear the faint echoes of his cry, “Waitah, Waitah!” and it would grow stronger and stronger until he would fall in a heap again close to my quarters, spluttering, muttering and cursing worse than before. Three or four times the storm cloud disappeared in the distance, and three or four times back it came, until I was in despair. But once again it was slowly blown away, “Waitah! Waitah! Waitah!” and I heard it no more.

It was nearly nine o'clock when I came in to breakfast in the morning and took my seat at a table occupied by two “drummers,” who were conversing with each other.

“Tol'able lively night,” remarked one of them, whom I shall call Smith.

“Yes,” said I. “Who on earth was that man, and what ever became of him?”

“It's Pete Bunker,” replied the man. “Don't you know Pete? Why, the Bunkers are one of the best families in these parts. The cook found him in the kitchen this morning sitting at the table fast asleep with his head on his arms. He came out of his room for something ”