Part 1 (2/2)
So vehemently occupied was he with his chagrin and annoyance that he stamped heavily upon the pet corn of a retired rear admiral, rudely b.u.mped a Roumanian d.u.c.h.ess, kicked the pink poodle of a famous prima donna and brought up with a thud against the heroic brawn and muscle of the house detective, who stood as solidly in the middle of the lobby as if he had taken root somewhere down in the foundations.
”Can I beat what?” asked the house detective frigidly.
My, but he was an angry young man, and he fairly snarled at the magnificent individual he had collided with:
”Beat a drum, beat an egg, beat around the bush--go as far as you like--beat your grandmother if you prefer!”
The granite faced house detective was not used to that sort of treatment; furthermore it distinctly galled him to be asked to beat his grandmother, whom he recalled as an estimable old lady who made an odd noise when she ate soup, owing to an absence of teeth.
”What's that you said about my grandmother?” he said, bridling.
”Bother your grandmother,” shot back the insolent retort, whereat the lordly house detective plucked the young man by the arm.
”Staggerin' an' loony talk don't go in the Ritz,” he said under his breath. ”You've been havin' too much.”
”Preposterous!” exclaimed the young man, vainly endeavoring to shake his arm free.
”Are you a guest of the house?” demanded the immaculately garbed minion of the Ritz.
”I am, so kindly remove the pair of pincers you are crus.h.i.+ng my arm with.”
”What's your name?”
”I don't know--that is, I've forgotten.”
”Now I know you need lookin' after. Come over here to the desk.”
The house detective had manifested no more outward pa.s.sion than a block of ice, and so adroit was he in marching the young man to the desk that not an eye in the lobby was attracted to the little scene.
The young man was at first inclined to make a fuss about it and demand an abject apology for this untoward treatment. The absurdity of his predicament, however, stirred his sense of humor and he was meekly docile when his captor arraigned him at the desk and addressed one of the clerks:
”Do you know this young man, Mr. Horton?”
”Why, yes, Reagan--this is Mr. Smith--why”--
”That's it--Smith!” cried the young man. ”How could I ever forget that name? Thomas Smith, isn't it, Mr. Horton, or is it James?”
”Thomas, of course; at least that's the way you registered, Mr.
Smith--Thomas Smith and valet.” The clerk's eyebrows started straight up his head.
”Thomas Smith, exactly. Now are you satisfied, Mr. House Detective, or do you want to go up and examine my luggage? Having convinced you that I am a registered guest, how would you like to have me walk a chalk line and convince you that I am sober?”
The house detective froze up tighter than ever, pivoted on his heel and walked majestically away.
”What is the trouble, Mr. Smith?” asked the clerk deferentially, for he was a better student of exteriors than John Reagan, twenty years a precinct detective and retired to take up the haughtier role of plain-clothes man in this most fastidious of metropolitan hostelries.
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