So vehemently occupied was he with his chagrin and annoyance that he stamped heavily upon the pet corn of a retired rear admiral, rudely bumped a Roumanian duchess, kicked the pink poodle of a famous prima donna and brought up with a thud against the heroic brawn and muscle of the house detective, who stood as solidly in the middle of the lobby as if he had taken root somewhere down in the foundations.
“Can I beat what?” asked the house detective frigidly.
My, but he was an angry young man, and he fairly snarled at the magnificent individual he had collided with:
“Beat a drum, beat an egg, beat around the bush––go as far as you like––beat your grandmother if you prefer!”
The granite faced house detective was not used to that sort of treatment; furthermore it distinctly galled him to be asked to beat his grandmother, whom he recalled as an estimable old lady who made an odd noise when she ate soup, owing to an absence of teeth.
“What’s that you said about my grandmother?” he said, bridling.
“Bother your grandmother,” shot back the insolent 12 retort, whereat the lordly house detective plucked the young man by the arm.
“Staggerin’ an’ loony talk don’t go in the Ritz,” he said under his breath. “You’ve been havin’ too much.”
“Preposterous!” exclaimed the young man, vainly endeavoring to shake his arm free.
“Are you a guest of the house?” demanded the immaculately garbed minion of the Ritz.