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Page 69
"Here," he said, surrendering hat and coat to the servitor before the
latter could remonstrate--"take and check these for me, please. I
shan't be going for some time yet."
"Sorry, sir, but the cloak-room down 'ere 's closed, sir. You'll have
to check them on the ball-room floor above."
"No matter," said the little man: and groping in a pocket, he produced
a dollar bill and tendered it to ready fingers; "you keep 'em for me,
down here. It'll save time when I'm ready to go."
"Very good, sir. Thank you."
"You won't forget me?"
The flunkey grinned. "You're the only gentleman I've seen to-night,
sir, in a costume anything like your own."
"There's but one of me in the Union," said the gentleman, sententious:
"my spear knows no brother."
"Thank you, sir," said the servant civilly, making off.
With an air of some dubiety, the little man watched him go.
"I say!" he cried suddenly--"come back!"
He was obeyed.
A second dollar bill appeared as it were by magic between his fingers.
The flunkey stared.
"Beg pardon, sir?"
"Take it"--impatiently.
"Thank you." The well-trained fingers executed their most familiar
manoeuvre. "But--m'y I ask, sir--wot's it for?"
"You called me a gentleman just now."
"Yes, sir."
"You were right."
"Quite so, sir."
"The devil _is_ a gentleman," the masquerader insisted firmly.
"So I've always 'eard, sir."
"Then you may go; you've earned the other dollar."
Obsequiousness stared: "M'y I ask, 'ow so?"
"By standing for that antediluvian bromidiom. I had to get it off my
chest to somebody, or else blow up. Far better to hire an audience
when you can't be original. Remember that; you've been paid: you
daren't object."
"Thankyousir," said the lackey blankly.
"And now--avaunt--before I brand thee for mine own!"
The little gentleman flung out an imperative, melodramatic arm; and
veritable sparks sprayed from his crackling finger-tips. The servant
retired in haste and dismay.
"'E's balmy--or screwed--or the Devil 'imself!" he muttered....
Beneath his mask the little man grinned privately at the man's
retreat.
"Piker!" said he severely--"sharpening your wits on helpless servants.
A waiter has no friends, anyway!"
An elevator, descending, discharged into the lobby half a dozen
mirthful maskers. Of these, a Scheherazade of bewitching prettiness
(in a cloak of ermine!) singled out the silent, cynical little
gentleman in scarlet mask and smalls, and menaced him merrily with a
jewelled forefinger.
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