2.
Jill had read works of fiction in which at certain crises everything
had "seemed to swim" in front of the heroine's eyes, but never till
this moment had she experienced that remarkable sensation herself.
The Savior of Guatemala did not actually swim, perhaps, but he
certainly flickered. She had to blink to restore his prismatic
outlines to their proper sharpness. Already the bustle and noise of
New York had begun to induce in her that dizzy condition of unreality
which one feels in dreams, and this extraordinary statement added the
finishing touch.
Perhaps the fact that she had said "please" to him when she opened
the conversation touched the heart of the hero of a thousand
revolutions. Dignified and beautiful as he was to the eye of the
stranger, it is unpleasant to have to record that he lived in a world
which rather neglected the minor courtesies of speech. People did not
often say "please" to him. "Here!" "Hi!" and "Gosh darn you!" yes;
but seldom "please." He seemed to approve of Jill, for he shifted his
chewing-gum to a position which facilitated speech, and began to be
helpful.
"What was the name again?"
"Selby."
"Howja spell it?"
"S-e-l-b-y."
"S-e-l-b-y. Oh, Selby?"
"Yes, Selby."
"What was the first name?"
"Christopher."
"Christopher?"
"Yes, Christopher."
"Christopher Selby? No one of that name living here."
"But there must be."
The veteran shook his head with an indulgent smile.
"You want Mr Sipperley," he said tolerantly. In Guatemala these
mistakes are always happening. "Mr George Sipperley. He's on the
fourth floor. What name shall I say?"
He had almost reached the telephone when Jill stopped him. This is an
age of just-as-good substitutes, but she refused to accept any
unknown Sipperley as a satisfactory alternative for Uncle Chris.
"I don't want Mr Sipperley. I want Major Selby."
"Howja spell it once more?"
"S-e-l-b-y."
"S-e-l-b-y. No one of that name living here. Mr. Sipperley--"--he
spoke in a wheedling voice, as if determined, in spite of herself, to
make Jill see what was in her best interests--"Mr Sipperley's on the
fourth floor. Gentleman in the real estate business," he added
insinuatingly. "He's got blond hair and a Boston bull-dog."
"He may be all you say, and he may have a dozen bulldogs . . ."
"Only one. Jack his name is."
". . . But he isn't the right man. It's absurd. Major Selby wrote to
me from this address. This _is_ Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street?"
"This is Eighteen East Fifty-seventh Street," conceded the other
cautiously.
"I've got his letter here." She opened her bag, and gave an
exclamation of dismay. "It's gone!"
"Mr Sipperley used to have a friend staying with him last Fall. A Mr
Robertson. Dark-complected man with a mustache."
"I took it out to look at the address, and I was sure I put it back.
I must have dropped it."
"There's a Mr Rainsby on the seventh floor. He's a broker down on
Wall Street. Short man with an impediment in his speech."
Jill snapped the clasp of her bag.
"Never mind," she said. "I must have made a mistake. I was quite sure
that this was the address, but it evidently isn't. Thank you so much.
I'm so sorry to have bothered you."
She walked away, leaving the Terror of Paraguay and all points west
speechless: for people who said "Thank you so much" to him were even
rarer than those who said "please." He followed her with an
affectionate eye till she was out of sight, then, restoring his
chewing-gum to circulation, returned to the perusal of his paper. A
momentary suggestion presented itself to his mind that what Jill had
really wanted was Mr Willoughby on the eighth floor, but it was too
late to say so now: and soon, becoming absorbed in the narrative of a
spirited householder in Kansas who had run amuck with a hatchet and
slain six, he dismissed the matter from his mind.
