loose gray linen covers being added when the rooms were prepared for us.
Any one who has ever struggled with his temper and the slack-fitting
shift of a tufted armchair will require no explanation as to what took
place between me and my share of those untufted receptacles before I
deposited its garment under my bed, and announced that burlap and tacks
were luxurious enough for me. That one item contained enough irritation
and excitement to ruin any "cure."

The washstand problem was even more complicated. A small, tapering brass
tank, holding about two quarts of water, with a faucet which dripped
into a diminutive cup with an unstoppered waste-pipe, was screwed to the
wall in our little corridor. We asked for a washstand, and this
arrangement was introduced to our notice, the chambermaid being
evidently surprised at the ignorance of barbarians who had never seen a
washstand before. We objected that a mixed party of men and women could
not use that decently, even if two quarts of water were sufficient for
three women and a man. After much argument and insistence, we obtained,
piecemeal: item, one low stool; item, one basin; item, one pitcher.
There were no fastenings on the doors, except a hasp and staple to the
door of the corridor, to which, after due entreaty, we secured an oblong
padlock.

The next morning, the chambermaid came to the door of our room opening
on the private corridor while we were dressing, and demanded the basin
and pitcher. "Some one else wants them!" she shouted through the door.
We had discovered her to be a person of so much decision of character,
in the course of our dealings with her on the preceding day, that we
were too wary to admit her, lest she should simply capture the utensils
and march off with them. As I was the heaviest of the party, it fell to
my lot to brace myself against the unfastened door and parley with her.