There were pictures on the walls of terrible wrecks at sea, naval battles, and a race horse or two.
The landlord himself lifted Fitzgerald's bag to the counter.
"A room for the night and supper, right away." "Here, Jimmy," called the landlord to a growing, lumbering boy, "take this satchel up to number five." The boy went his way, eying the labels respectfully and with some awe.
This was the third of its kind he had ported up-stairs in the past twenty-four hours.
Fitzgerald cast an idle glance at the loungers.

There were half a dozen of them, some of them playing cards and some displaying talent on a pool table, badly worn and beer-stained.

There was nothing distinctive about any of them, excepting the little man who was reading an evening paper, and the only distinctive thing about him was a pair of bright eyes.

Behind their gold-rimmed spectacles they did not waver under Fitzgerald's scrutiny; so the latter dismissed the room and its company from his mind and proceeded into dinner.

As he was late, he dined alone on mildly warm chicken, greasy potatoes, and muddy coffee.
He was used often to worse fare than this, and no complaint was even thought of.