“Why don’t you get a good story while you’re at it?” he demanded. “Looks like you’re running away from something.”
“Great heavens, I should think I am!”
“You fellows,” observed the elevator man, “think you can come to this town and raise hell and then pull some soldier stuff and get out of it. Well, you haven’t any effect on me.”
The buzzer in the cage had been ringing insistently.
“I’ll have to go down. Crawl out, son.”
“Crawl out! Where to?”
“Don’t know. Can’t let you in an office. You may find some place.” He threw open the door. “Out with you!” he commanded. “I’ll look you up later.”
“Run me to the cellar,” gasped Sergeant Gray.
“Tailor’s shop there. Full of girls.”
With a hoarse imprecation Sergeant Gray left the elevator and scuttled down the hallway. To his maddened ears the place was full of sounds, of voices inside doorways and about to emerge, of footsteps, of hideous laughter. He had wild visions of finding a window and a roof, even of jumping off it. Then—he saw on a door the name of J. M. Booth, Photographer; and hope leaped in his heart.