CHAPTER VII
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MY FIRST HOUR IN AMERICA.
First experiences are occasionally curious. You shall hear one of mine.
Although the day we reached New York was the hottest that had ever been known in that great country of wonderful records, no heat, however extreme, could detract from the glories of New York Harbour, certainly the finest harbour I have ever seen. Numerous people, including, of course, the ubiquitous newspaper men, came on board to welcome me, bands were playing, and there was a gay and busy time generally.
Having landed, I entered a cab. Everyone, I suppose, has a vivid recollection of his first cab in America. The independence of the American cab-driver is sublime. It is something too great for words. You can only draw a long breath--and admire it. The particular journey which I was undertaking would have been in England something considerably less than a shilling fare. Hoping to be generous I proffered the driver an equivalent in English money to two shillings. To my surprise he said, “I guess, Colonel, that’s for myself; your fare is four dollars”--just eight times as much as I had offered. Of course, I could not argue with the man. He knew better than I, and there was nothing for it but to pay promptly what he demanded. Moreover, in America, it must be remembered, they charge, not for the drive, but for the cab.
Mr. Abbey, who met me on the boat, accompanied me to the hotel at which I was to stay. At the office his attention was called away for a moment, and I was left to the tender mercies of the bell boy, a nigger, who was asked to show me the rooms.
“Come along, sir,” the boy drawled. And along I went, making my first acquaintance with an American elevator, in which we were shot up heavenwards.
“How high are we?” I asked, as we got out.
“Oh, this is the sixteenth floor,” replied the boy, in an off-hand manner, “you can see if you look down.” I did look down. By Jove, the depth down that staircase was tremendous.
Having selected my apartments, the boy coolly stood beside me in my own room rolling a cigarette and lighting it in my presence. This action seemed a little impudent, but it was nothing to that which was to come. Remarking that I desired to wash, I also asked the boy if he would clean my boots.
“Clean your boots?” he exclaimed, in blank astonishment, “we don’t do that in America, we (speaking of course for himself and the niggers like him) don’t clean boots here.”
“Who then,” I asked, “does clean them?”
“Oh, you must go down stairs for that.” And with these words he reclined on my sofa, rolled another cigarette, and calmly smiled at me.
This was really too much for white flesh and blood to bear. I said to him sharply, “Look here, young man; I may be a stranger in this country and ignorant of some of its ways, but I know enough of Americans to be quite sure that it is not right for you to conduct yourself in this way. If you don’t promptly clear off I will report you!”
But the boy was not easily to be moved. Instead of taking himself off he squared up and wanted to fight me. So I just took hold of that boy, and testing his jacket and trousers to be sure that they would bear the strain, I swung him over the sixteenth floor staircase. And there for a few moments I held him, just to give him a view of the depth, which was so tremendous.
My word, didn’t that boy shout and scream! I assured him that he was quite safe in my hand so long as it was closed, but if he ever attempted his impertinences again I would bring him to the same spot and open it. And I reminded him that a drop through sixteen floors would not be good even for nigger boys who smoked cigarettes in private rooms and affected to be indignant at the suggestion that they should clean a visitor’s boots.
The boy’s cries drew a small crowd, including Martinus Sieveking and the manager of the hotel. The manager fully agreed with the warning I gave the boy, and was profuse in his apologies, saying that such conduct from a bell boy was unprecedented.
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