“It was love that revealed it,” said Short. “I have been pottering over that cut-off for years, while She did not smile; when She smiled, it came to me like a sneeze.”
“Well, you have done the world good, and made your fortune.”
“Yours too, old fellow, if you like. Pack up that model and the drawings, go to England. France, Germany, wherever they know steam from tobacco-smoke, take out patents, and introduce it. Old Churm says he will let me have half a million dollars, if I want it. You shall have free tap of funds, and charge what percentage you think proper.”
So I took steamer for England, with Short’s Cut-off to make known.
CHAPTER XXIX.
A LOST TRAIL.
It was June when I reached London. Business, not fashion, was my object. I wished to be at a convenient centre of that mighty huddle of men and things; so I drove to Smorley’s Hotel, Charing Cross.
In America, landlords dodge personal responsibility. They name their hotels after men of letters, statesmen, saints, and other eminent parties. Guests will perhaps find a great name compensation for infinitesimal comfort.
They do these things differently in England. Smorley does not dodge. Not Palmerston, nor Wordsworth, nor Spurgeon, is emblazoned in smoky gold on Smorley’s sign; but Smorley. Curses or blessings, therefore, Smorley himself gets them. Nobody scowls at the sirloin, and grumbles, sotto voce, “Palmerston has cut it too fat to-day”; nobody tosses between the sheets and prays, “O Wordsworth, why didst thou begrudge me the Insect-Exterminator?” Nobody complains, “Spurgeon’s beer is all froth, and small at that.” Smorley, and Smorley alone, gets credit for beef, beds, and beer.
Smorley’s Hotel stands at the verge of the East, and looks toward the West End of London. The Strand passes by its side, so thick with men, horses, and vehicles, that only a sharp eye viewing it from above detects the pavement. The mind wearies with the countless throng, going and coming in that narrow lane, and turns to look on the permanent features of Smorley’s landscape.