Five minutes later the taxicab drew up in front of a hotel. The unknown
stepped out, took a leather purse from his pocket and carefully counted
out in silver two dollars and twenty cents, which he poured into the
chauffeur's palm.
"Thank you, sir."
"You are an American?"
"Sure! I was born in this burg."
"Like the idea?"
"Huh?"
"The idea of being an American?"
"I should say yes! This is one grand little gob o' mud, believe me! It's
going to be dry in a little while, and then it will be some grand little
old brick. Say, let me give you a tip! The gas in this joint is extra if
you blow it out!"
Grinning, the chauffeur threw on the power and wheeled away into the
fog.
His late fare followed the vehicle with his gaze until it reached the
vanishing point, then he laughed. An American cockney! He turned and
entered the hotel. He marched resolutely up to the desk and roused
the sleeping clerk, who swung round the register. The unknown without
hesitance inscribed his name, which was John Hawksley. But he hesitated
the fraction of a second before adding his place of residence--London.
"A room with a bath, if you please; second flight. Have the man call me
at seven."
"Yes, sir. Here, boy!"
Sleepily the bellboy lifted the battered kitbag and led the way to the
elevator.
"Bawth!" said the night clerk, as the elevator door slithered to the
latch. "Bawth! The old dear!"
He returned to his chair, hoping that he would not be disturbed again
until he was relieved.
What do we care, so long as we don't know? What's the stranger to us but
a fleeting shadow? The Odysseys that pass us every day, and we none the
wiser!
The clerk had not properly floated away into dreams when he was again
roused. Resentfully he opened his eyes. A huge fist covered with a
fell of black hair rose and fell. Attached to this fist was an arm,
and joined to that were enormous shoulders. The clerk's trailing,
sleep-befogged glance paused when it reached the newcomer's face. The
jaws and cheeks and upper lip were blue-black with a beard that required
extra-tempered razors once a day. Black eyes that burned like opals, a
bullet-shaped head well cropped, and a pudgy nose broad in the nostrils.
Because this second arrival wore his hat well forward the clerk was
not able to discern the pinched forehead of the fanatic. Not wholly
unpleasant, not particularly agreeable; the sort of individual one
preferred to walk round rather than bump into. The clerk offered the
register, and the squat man scratched his name impatiently, grabbed the
extended key, and trotted to the elevator.