“I am, so kindly remove the pair of pincers you are crushing my arm with.”
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t know––that is, I’ve forgotten.”
“Now I know you need lookin’ after. Come over here to the desk.”
The house detective had manifested no more outward passion than a block of ice, and so adroit was he in marching the young man to the desk that not an eye in the lobby was attracted to the little scene.
The young man was at first inclined to make a fuss about it and demand an abject apology for this untoward treatment. The absurdity of his predicament, however, stirred his sense of humor and he was meekly docile when his captor arraigned him at the desk and addressed one of the clerks:
“Do you know this young man, Mr. Horton?”
“Why, yes, Reagan––this is Mr. Smith––why”––
“That’s it––Smith!” cried the young man. “How could I ever forget that name? Thomas Smith, isn’t it, Mr. Horton, or is it James?”