“Mr. Daw,” he said to the clerk.
“I think Mr. Daw’s probably gone to bed by this time, Wix,” the clerk protested.
“We’ll wake him up, then. What’s the number of his room? I’ll do it myself.”
The clerk grinned.
“If he kicks, you know, Wix, I can’t blame you for it. I’ll have to stand it myself.”
“He won’t kick. What’s his room?”
“Number one,” and again the clerk grinned. Nobody ever point-blank refused young Wix a favor. There was that in his bigness, and in the very jollity with which he defied life and its pretended gravity, which opened all doors to him. His breadth of chest had much to do with it.
“The bridal chamber, eh?” he chuckled. “In that case, send up a bottle of champagne and charge it to Mr. Daw’s account. Yes, I know the bar’s closed, but you have a key. Go dig it out yourself, Joe, and do it in style.”
Unattended, Mr. Wix made his way to room one and pounded on the door. Mr. Daw, encased in blue pajamas and just on the point of retiring, opened cautiously, and was quite crestfallen when he recognized his visitor. Nevertheless, he thawed into instant amiability.