Moreover it was noticed by the curious that when the men were asked by sceptical visitors whether they really enjoyed it, the invariable answer given in the same sort of voice with the same sort of smile was,
"We calls it our 'appy 'our, miss."
Salvation Joe was not perhaps more of a humbug than most of us: that is to say, he humbugged himself just as much as he humbugged others. At one time he had quite certainly found religion; and if with the advent of middle age he lost it, it is by no means sure that he was aware of his loss.
Certainly he was invaluable to the Management as a counterpoise; and they paid him accordingly. Salvation Joe never took tips. That impressed every one, especially the Third Floor. Through this idiosyncrasy Joe indeed acquired a European reputation. On Monday mornings he stood in the great marbled hall, under a tall palm, among bustling porters and stacks of luggage, a majestic presence, refusing with a martyr's smile the coin that corrupts. His real name was Joseph Collett; and in the boot-room in the basement he was known irreverently as J.C.
The staff attended the service because it paid; and they had to live.
There was only one man who never went; and that man was Ernie.
Joe met him in the passage one day, after he had been at the Hotel a month or more, and stopped him.
"I suppose you haven't got a soul to save then, Caspar?" he began, his great chest rising and falling beneath the flaming jersey.
Ernie grinned sheepishly.
"Well, Mr. Collett, as to that, I guess I've got the same as most."