"You certainly do take on like you'd lost a power of trouble."
P. Sybarite whirled round as if stung. The speaker occupied a chair tilted back against the wall, his feet on the rungs, a cigarette smouldering between his lips in open contempt of the regulations of the Fire Department and all other admonitions of ordinary common-sense.
"What can I do for you?" he resumed, nothing about him stirring save eyes that twinkled as they travelled from head to foot of the odd and striking figure P. Sybarite presented as Beelzebub, Knight Errant.
"Taxi!" the little man panted vociferously.
The other yawned and stretched. "It can't be done," he admitted fairly. "They ain't no such animal on the premises."
With a gesture P. Sybarite singled out the nearest car.
"What's that?" he demanded angrily.
Shading his eyes, the man examined it with growing wonder which presently found expression: "As I live, it's an autymobeel!"
"Damn your sense of humour!" stormed P. Sybarite. "What's the matter with that car?"
"As man to man—nothing."