The hotel was in the middle of town, with the train tracks running directly in front of it and the ticket office opening off the hotel lobby. The freight office and yards were further down, connecting with the ticket office by a long covered shed. An all-night cafeteria was on the other side of the ticket office, and here those railroad men who were not dressed for the privileges of the regular hotel dining room might feel at ease. Train talk was the thing in both places, however, with the daily schedules of Number Nine, Number Forty-six, Number Six, etc., all discussed as if they were race horses instead of engines. Indeed, these engines panted and snorted as joyfully into the very doors of the London Junction Hotel as if they were pet stallions showing off for their proud masters, anxious for a pat of approval. Their records hung conspicuously in both cafeteria and hotel lobby, and were studied intently by everyone, regardless of any plans for travel. “Did you hear about Twenty-six? Broke down twenty-two minutes out of Columbus, had to back up for repairs, got in an hour and forty minutes late. Shorty was firing. Old Hank in the cab.” The commercial travelers liked to know all these things—something to season their conversation while they were selling.

The hotel was four stories high, of red brick, with glasswalled lobby, behind which the residents lolled in Morris chairs and viewed the passing trains, or, as they shifted from view, the marketplace on the other side of the tracks. Mr. Purdy, owner and manager, was a man of forty, thin, beak-nosed, bald, with a nasal eastern voice and general air of cosmopolitan distinction, due to a neatly cropped brown moustache, rimless glasses on a black ribbon, and a fur-collared greatcoat. He kept his wife and other family details tucked away somewhere in the back of the house, and was known to freeze Mrs. Purdy with a look when she ventured into the doorway of the lobby. The rule was that she was to use the back entrance, and though Mr. Purdy dined with his guests in the dining room, and so did Mrs. Hazy, his housekeeper, Mrs. Purdy was protected from this commercial scene by being screened off with her offspring into a corner of the kitchen. Far from being displeased, Mrs. Purdy basked in the special protection provided for her, not at all resentful that it was her money which had bought the hotel so that she might have deserved some say in its management. The isolation had further point in that the Purdy offspring, at two years old, showed signs to all but his mother of being imbecilic, though in a silent, unobtrusive way.

Papa had engaged a large corner bedroom for his family, with two big brass beds in it so that when he was at home he could sleep there too. In the mornings the chambermaid helped them get ready for school. The older girls brought Florrie home from kindergarten at noon and she was permitted to tag at the chambermaid’s skirts the rest of the day. Mrs. Purdy’s niece, Bonnie, the cashier, also took a personal interest in Florrie, and allowed her to play in the lobby under her fond but casual eye. Florrie took turns sitting on the laps of the various residents, ate limitless bonbons and cookies, and showed off.