Bodybuilders -- Biography; Exercise -- Popular works; Physical education and training -- Popular works; Sandow, Eugen, 1867-1925
Having landed, I entered a cab. Everyone, I suppose, has a vivid
recollection of his first cab in America. The independence of the
American cab-driver is sublime. It is something too great for words.
You can only draw a long breath--and admire it. The particular
journey which I was undertaking would have been in England something
considerably less than a shilling fare. Hoping to be generous I
proffered the driver an equivalent in English money to two shillings.
To my surprise he said, “I guess, Colonel, that’s for myself; your fare
is four dollars”--just eight times as much as I had offered. Of course,
I could not argue with the man. He knew better than I, and there was
nothing for it but to pay promptly what he demanded. Moreover, in
America, it must be remembered, they charge, not for the drive, but for
the cab.
Mr. Abbey, who met me on the boat, accompanied me to the hotel at
which I was to stay. At the office his attention was called away for
a moment, and I was left to the tender mercies of the bell boy, a
nigger, who was asked to show me the rooms.
“Come along, sir,” the boy drawled. And along I went, making my first
acquaintance with an American elevator, in which we were shot up
heavenwards.
“How high are we?” I asked, as we got out.
“Oh, this is the sixteenth floor,” replied the boy, in an off-hand
manner, “you can see if you look down.” I did look down. By Jove, the
depth down that staircase was tremendous.
Having selected my apartments, the boy coolly stood beside me in my own
room rolling a cigarette and lighting it in my presence. This action
seemed a little impudent, but it was nothing to that which was to come.
Remarking that I desired to wash, I also asked the boy if he would
clean my boots.
“Clean your boots?” he exclaimed, in blank astonishment, “we don’t do
that in America, we (speaking of course for himself and the niggers
like him) don’t clean boots here.”
“Who then,” I asked, “does clean them?”
“Oh, you must go down stairs for that.” And with these words he
reclined on my sofa, rolled another cigarette, and calmly smiled at me.
This was really too much for white flesh and blood to bear. I said to
him sharply, “Look here, young man; I may be a stranger in this country
and ignorant of some of its ways, but I know enough of Americans to be
quite sure that it is not right for you to conduct yourself in this
way. If you don’t promptly clear off I will report you!”
But the boy was not easily to be moved. Instead of taking himself off
he squared up and wanted to fight me. So I just took hold of that boy,
and testing his jacket and trousers to be sure that they would bear the
strain, I swung him over the sixteenth floor staircase. And there for a
few moments I held him, just to give him a view of the depth, which was
so tremendous.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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