"Sir? Be you a gentleman?"
"I hope so," went down the quiet reply. "But I can't remember that I was ever asked that question at this time of morning before."
"Be you a Christian?" insisted the voice from below.
"Sometimes—perhaps," went down the voice from above.
The voice from below came up: "Sir! Sir! I'm in great trouble. For the love of Christ, sir, come down, quick!"
"Why, of course," said the voice from above.
The man stood quite still when the great bolts of the door shot through their grooves. Against a background of electric brilliance he saw a gentleman in pajamas and bathrobe, with slippers as soft as a lady's on his white feet. The face of the gentleman was somewhat fixed and guarded; his features were carefully cut, behind their heavy coat of seaside tan.
"Well," he said, "that was a pretty solemn adjuration. What is it?"
"I want to get a team," stammered the figure on the steps. Suddenly, somehow, his courage had begun to falter. He felt the enormity of his intrusion. He came up against the mystery of social distinctions; his great human emergency seemed to be distanced by the little thing men call difference of class.
"You want—to get—a team?" repeated the gentleman; he spoke slowly, without irritation. "You have made a mistake. This is not a livery-stable."