And they went out one at a time, saying good night to the hotel-keeper and in the most pinted way taking no notice of us at all.

It certainly was a chill.

We sees something is wrong, and we begins to have a notion of what it is.
The hotel-keeper, he spits out his chew, and goes behind his little counter and takes a five-cent cigar out of his little show case and bites the end off careful.

Then he leans his elbows onto his counter and reads our names to himself out of the register book, and looks at us, and from us to the names, and from the names to us, like he is trying to figger out how he come to let us write 'em there.

Then he wants to know where we come from before we come to Atlanta, where we had registered from.