CHAPTER IX

THE CONFOUNDED HOTEL CLERK

“Whoop!” shouted the American, joyously. “Didn’t I tell you things were going to hum? You stand on me! Steindal, Constantine and Co. haven’t a dog’s chance!”

I pointed out that such unseemly behavior at the door of a busy hotel in the High was likely to cause unpleasant comment, if, indeed, it did not excite proctorial wrath, and he retorted that a freeborn Yankee was entitled to unfurl the Stars and Stripes on all such occasions as seemed personally fitting. In fact, we both were very elated by the really remarkable confirmation of Karl’s story given by Mrs. Grier’s telegram, and we exhibited our emotions after the manner of our respective kith.

Though we Anglo-Saxons, the Siamese twins of the Atlantic, are so closely bound together by the ties of speech and history, though the best blood of Britain has been generously given to the building up of the great nation of the west, there are differences of temperament, probably induced by climate, which divide us into well-marked varieties of the human family. Thus, while Hooper did not hesitate to express his wordy delight, and with animated face and lively movement exhibit the dynamic energy called into play by Karl’s announcement, I strove to stiffen myself into a passable representation of a wooden image. I suppose we Britons do that sort of thing because we think that sort of thing is the correct thing, don’chyno.

You have but to cross the Atlantic a few times to obtain clear mind-pictures of the expansive Jonathan and the bovine Bull. An American liner puts off from Pier 14 in the Hudson River and swings slowly in the stream until her nose points towards the Statue of Liberty. Look back at the wharf banked high with people, and see the innumerable little flags, the countless handkerchiefs, signalling frantic farewells! That is enthusiasm! If Brown and his wife set forth for Europe, Smith, Jones, and Robinson and their respective wives gather on the steamer to see the Browns off. There is a lot of excitement, flowers, and flag-wagging--perhaps some furtive tears--but, anyhow, an honest display of unbridled human nature. Then see that same vessel edging away from Southampton quay, and note the guarded leave-taking of those rare individuals who depart so greatly from British traditions as to speed their voyaging friends as far as the ship’s gangway. The last time I was there, a dozen of us, cowering behind rain-swept railway trucks, had journeyed from London to see off a whole ship’s company. Do you fancy we flagged anybody, or waved handkerchiefs, or yelled cheery messages? Not we! We watched the steamer disappearing into a squall and then eyed each other suspiciously, if not with active hostility; while some of us negotiated for the only available cab.

Yet it is all gammon, this seeming stoicism, a smug respectability which “goes well,” as the milliners say, with a silk hat and an umbrella. Indeed, if for “climate” you read “umbrella,” you have what Max Müller would call the “root concept” of my philosophy. John adapts his garments to suit his uncertain weather, and he carries this covering-up method into all the affairs of life.

Certain explanations to the authorities procured permission for Karl to go to London. I accompanied him in the time-honored rôle of _amicus curiæ_, but Hooper, of his own accord, said it would be more seemly if he were held in reserve as one who could offer confirmatory evidence if it were required.

Three hours after the receipt of Mrs. Grier’s telegram we were at the inquiry office of the Pall Mall Hotel. It was then 6 P.M.

“The _Merlin_ is not in yet,” said the hotel clerk, in the curt, off-hand manner which the Londoner is beginning to learn from his American fellow-official.

“Not in yet!” I gasped. “Why, man, we received a message hours ago at Oxford concerning people on board.”

“That is more than we have done.”

He made pretence to be exceedingly busy with a ledger; but prolonged ill-usage by ticket examiners, platform inspectors, and the rest of the Jacks in office who seldom know much about their duties, has hardened me.

“Are you so overworked that you cannot attend to me, or shall I ask Mr. Schmidt’s assistance?” I demanded.

Now here I have given you a most useful tip. Always ascertain the name of the manager of the hotel. The prompt, familiar reference to the august “Schmidt”--whom I did not know--warned the clerk that here might be some person of importance, worthy to be on terms of intimacy with the great gun of the Pall Mall Hotel. He groveled, closing the ledger carefully lest the bang should annoy me further.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I hope you did not misunderstand me,” he said, smiling--oh, how I hate that false smirk--“the _Merlin_ was signaled from Queenstown yesterday, but she has not reached Liverpool. We place a notice in the vestibule the moment we have any news, and the telegram itself states--what time--the special--Excuse me, sir, but your friend--”

Karl was standing by my side during the brief colloquy with the clerk. I saw the pert Londoner’s eyes droop. His lips parted and whitened, his voice faltered, his demeanor was that of Richard III on the eve of the battle of Bosworth Field. I half expected to hear him yelp:

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain.

I gazed anxiously at my companion, and became partly aware of what had happened. Karl had magnetized the clerk! In another instant the dapper little man would be crawling over the counter, looking up with uncomprehending terror at the Jove-like being who bent those lightning shafts on him.

I caught Karl by the arm. Instantly the concentrated energy which had shrunk the pupils of his eyes to pin-points relaxed, the relieved motor and sensory nerves returned to their ordinary functions, and he looked benignantly at the quivering clerk, whom he had not seen at all during the transient oblivion of his surroundings.

“It is all right,” he said, turning towards me. “A railway porter has just told Maggie that the train will leave the landing-stage station in twenty minutes. In fact, at this moment she is talking to Steindal’s representative, a man named Bocci. And, do you know, from what she said I imagine--”

I caught the clerk listening now with a rabbit-eared amazement that nearly equaled his previous alarm. I was sorry for him. He must be in a state of agitation somewhat akin to the flutterings of a sparrow rescued from the deadly fascination of a snake.

So I laughed, with the best assumption of the actor’s art of which I was capable.

“Let him off, Karl!” I cried. “The next time we seek information I am sure he will give it to us readily.”

Karl took my cue and grinned in concert. I led him away to a lounge, but, ever and anon, the clerk watched us from the corner of his eye, and I chortled to see him comparing the clock with the time stated on a telegram which reached him a few minutes later, wherein the departure of the _Merlin_ special was announced in exact concord with Karl’s statement.

Meanwhile I learnt what had taken place. No sooner had Grier heard the unexpected fact of the steamer’s non-arrival than he, quite carelessly, “sent out,” as he phrased it, to find Maggie and the ship. He experienced no difficulty this time. He saw the girl and her mother standing in a huge shed and conversing with a foreign-looking person. Through several doors he distinguished the brass-rimmed port-holes and white rails of a large vessel, and he heard a hum of voices, the clanking of cranes, and the tramping of many feet.

“From what I gathered,” he said, “Signor Bocci was surprised, even annoyed, to learn that Miss Hutchinson was not prepared to accept at once the contract which Steindal offered. ‘No artiste has ever obtained more favorable terms from my principal,’ he told her. ‘Is it that you demand more money, or more frequent appearances?’ ‘Oh, no,’ said Maggie, and she has such a nice, sweet voice; ‘I am, indeed, greatly obliged to Mr. Steindal, and to you, signor, for having troubled to come to Liverpool. But I really must ask you to let arrangements stand in abeyance until my mother and I meet you in London.’ ‘But what am I to cable to Steindal?’ he asked. ‘Why cable this evening?’ she persisted. ‘Am I such an important little person that the world is waiting breathlessly for my decision?’ That is all I heard while I was paralyzing the clerk.”

“How was Miss Hutchinson dressed?”

“In a navy blue costume trimmed with black braid. She wore a white yachting cap and white gloves. Mrs. Hutchinson was dressed in black, with a sort of black lace mantle and a black bonnet of lace and feathers.”

“And Bocci--what is _he_ like?”

“An ordinary, under-sized, pasty-faced Italian, fiercely outlined with black hair, eyebrows, and moustache.”

I went to the bureau again. The inquiry clerk was apprehensive, but I only wanted the London Directory. And therein I hunted up the entry: “Bocci, Giovanni, concert agent,” with a number in a Strand side-street.

“How did you know that Steindal’s London representative was named Bocci?” I asked Karl.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you that Miss Hutchinson held his card in her hand.”

He rattled off “Signor Giovanni Bocci,” and the rest of the copperplate legend! I wonder what the inquiry clerk would have thought had he overheard the whole of Karl’s story. Afterwards, when steeled to the marvel of it all, I did not hesitate to prod the dull wits of the heavy tribe which Emerson describes as “only understanding pitch-forks and the cry of ‘Fire!’” But that evening I forebore, lest we should be turned out of the hotel.

Indeed, that monstrous British dread of a “scene” induced me to beseech Karl not to go wandering off through space until the conditions were more private. We had four hours to spare, so we dined, strolled to Hyde Park and back, and finally awaited in the hotel vestibule the advent of the two ladies. It was the height of the London season. One of the many fine days which the world’s capital manages to smuggle in between layers of fog and sheeted storm was drawing to a close. And how majestic, how radiantly calm, is London at such an hour! The purple haze of evening glorifies the harsh lines of myriad roofs; the long rows of twinkling lights might have been designed by Whistler; beneath the opulent robe of the great city one can hear its tremendous heart beating peacefully.

It was Grier’s first adult experience of London, and I was certain that it affected him powerfully. He told me later that he was tempted many times to expand those awesome caverns of his brain, and seek to understand with their seemingly immeasurable receptive capacity the giant influences at work amidst that vast aggregation of humanity. But he resisted successfully, feeling somewhat awed, even a little frightened, by the belief that he alone, among the passing thousands, was endowed with almost omniscient knowledge of the actions and utterances of his fellow-men. Not of their thoughts. There was something of that to come--a grand expansion of that sympathetic transmission of ideas vaguely known to men and animals since the Spirit moved over the face of the waters, and the heavens and the earth and all the host of them were designed. But not yet. The most sceptical of scientists could not accuse Karl of flights of imagination, for he recorded naught save positive facts of contemporary occurrence. That, to me, was the most startling feature of his sixth sense. There scarcely exists a man or woman of any real intelligence who has not, at one time or another, communicated the unspoken thought to another at a distance. Truly, this comparatively general attribute of mankind is a far more stupendous and less comprehensible achievement than Karl’s telegnomy. But, as Hooper said about the wheel and the use of fire, we soon become surfeited with wonders.

The hands of the great clock over the fireplace crept slowly past 11.30 P.M., the hour named in the telegram from the shipping company as that at which the _Merlin_ passengers would reach Euston. Thence, with the best intentions, otherwise a fast hansom, the Hutchinson ladies could not arrive at the hotel much before midnight.

Nevertheless, at a quarter to twelve, Grier showed some signs of restlessness. I have often thought that these physical indications of the psychic force pent up in certain tiny pyramidal cells situate within the cortex of the gray matter of the brain greatly resembled the throbbings and strainings and extraordinarily minute movements of a boiler getting up steam. Your inch-thick, riveted cylinder may be bolted to iron beams imbedded in granite-like concrete, yet the living power of steam makes its presence felt long ere the engineer bids the impatient giant get to work.

And it was so now with Karl. He could not sit still. The vestibule was full of people waiting to meet the _Merlin_ contingent--oh, no, not of English people, but of Americans, anxious to welcome other Americans--yet Karl and I, amidst all the lively throng, enlisted the sustained attention of the inquiry clerk.

Once, after catching his eye, an impulse of sheer devilment sent me to greet Mr. Schmidt most warmly. The manager, of course, being an affable man who liked to stand on pleasant terms with his patrons, was quite amenable to that kind of polite attention. We entered into a lively conversation for a minute or two, and I kept darting expressive glances towards the clerk.

I am sure the poor fellow quaked. Quitting Mr. Schmidt, I rejoined Karl, and the inquiry clerk ran across the vestibule. He was most anxious now to be civil.

“I have just heard of a telephone message from Euston,” he said to me. “There are ninety passengers for this hotel, and they will be here in a few minutes.”

“The first station omnibus is just coming round the corner,” said Karl, quietly. “Maggie and her mother are in the next one, not in a hansom.”

Now, from where we stood, there was no visible vehicle of the type mentioned. The clerk looked puzzled, as well he might, thinking my companion had commented on his statement. I knew what had happened. During my momentary talk with Schmidt, Karl had taken a peep beyond.

Sure enough, almost at once a London and North Western Railway ’bus deposited the first consignment of _Merlin_ folk at the hotel entrance. Out of the next conveyance stepped two ladies whom I recognized, from the description supplied by Karl, as Mrs. Hutchinson and her daughter.

I must confess that the sight of them gave me a shock, well prepared though I was for their appearance. Yet it is one thing to expect a certain experience, but quite another to undergo it--as, to wit, being ready for the sensation of a needle-bath and receiving the impact of the icy jets of water on your bare skin.

It was so exceedingly strange to see the mother and daughter, unconscious objects of experiments of epoch-marking importance, quietly appearing at the door of a London hotel under ordinary conditions open to any of the well-dressed, unheeding crowd within or the hurrying multitude without.

They passed through the revolving doors, and looked about them. Karl stepped forward, somewhat shyly, though there was an instant charm in his smiling disingenuousness. You see, he fancied he had to introduce himself, being now a tall man in place of the little boy Mrs. Hutchinson had last seen, and whom Maggie must wholly fail to remember.

So far as mama was concerned, be sure she could not distinguish Grier, at first glance, from any other man present.

But Maggie saw him instantly. She became very pale, and her eyes, extremely pretty eyes they were (and are), dilated.

“Oh, mother!” she cried aloud. “There he is!”

So curiously perturbed was she, so timid and childlike in her words and attitude, that Grier’s conventional welcome died away in his throat. Yet he held out his hand, and the girl, stepping forward impulsively, caught it in both of hers.

But her eyes filled with tears, and the corners of her mouth quivered, and not another word could she utter. The scene was unexpected, embarrassing, and, of course, dreadfully un-English. And what did it all signify?