“Yo'll fin' the smokin' cab up fo'wu'd, suh,” said the latter, firmly barring the way.
“It's generally forward,” answered Thorpe.
“This yeah's th' sleepah,” protested the functionary. “You pays extry.”
“I am aware of it,” replied Thorpe curtly. “Give me a lower.”
“Yessah!” acquiesced the darkey, giving way, but still in doubt. He followed Thorpe curiously, peering into the smoking room on him from time to time. A little after twelve his patience gave out. The stolid gloomy man of lower six seemed to intend sitting up all night.
“Yo' berth is ready, sah,” he delicately suggested.
Thorpe arose obediently, walked to lower six, and, without undressing, threw himself on the bed. Afterwards the porter, in conscientious discharge of his duty, looked diligently beneath the seat for boots to polish. Happening to glance up, after fruitless search he discovered the boots still adorning the feet of their owner.
“Well, for th' LANDS sake!” ejaculated the scandalized negro, beating a hasty retreat.
He was still more scandalized when, the following noon, his strange fare brushed by him without bestowing the expected tip.
Thorpe descended at Twelfth Street in Chicago without any very clear notion of where he was going. For a moment he faced the long park-like expanse of the lake front, then turned sharp to his left and picked his way south up the interminable reaches of Michigan Avenue. He did this without any conscious motive—mainly because the reaches seemed interminable, and he proved the need of walking. Block after block he clicked along, the caulks of his boots striking fire from the pavement. Some people stared at him a little curiously. Others merely glanced in his direction, attracted more by the expression of his face than the peculiarity of his dress. At that time rivermen were not an uncommon sight along the water front.