“Thank you, sah; thank you!” said Sam, whose eyeballs rolled whitely at the magnificence of the tip.
The twin elevators in the Arcade were sleepy affairs, unoppressed by a sense of time, while the voyage upward was never guaranteed. They were large, open, cage-like affairs, littered with announcements: rooms to be sublet or to be shared; trousers pressed and old clothes bought; washing cheaply offered; instruction in typewriting and stenography; dental parlors; the future foretold and confidential advice given at reasonable rates by Madame Probasco on the fifth floor; while only temporarily reversed, a large sign announced:
OUT OF ORDER
TAKE OTHER ELEVATOR
Sam lingered a moment, humming sleepily, as though to coax forth another passenger from the shadows. This failing, he shuffled out for a languid survey of the Arcade.
“No hurry here,” said O’Leary, yawning indifferently and settling into the cushioned chair which soothed the attendant in his weary hours.
Thus encouraged, Sam lounged away for a final reconnoitering, slouched back, vacillated a moment on one foot, and had his hand on the sliding gate, when out of the dusk came a hallo in a high, nasal English accent.
“I say there, Sassafras, my man, hold him in!”
Sam began laughing immediately, in a thin, treble, body-shaking laugh,
“He-he-he, Mr. Kidder; I sartainly knew you was coming—yassah!”