“I should say yes! This is one grand little gob o' mud, believe me! It's going to be dry in a little while, and then it will be some grand little old brick. Say, let me give you a tip! The gas in this joint is extra if you blow it out!” Grinning, the chauffeur threw on the power and wheeled away into the fog. His late fare followed the vehicle with his gaze until it reached the vanishing point, then he laughed. An American cockney! He turned and entered the hotel. He marched resolutely up to the desk and roused the sleeping clerk, who swung round the register. The unknown without hesitance inscribed his name, which was John Hawksley. But he hesitated the fraction of a second before adding his place of residence--London. “A room with a bath, if you please; second flight. Have the man call me at seven.” “Yes, sir. Here, boy!” Sleepily the bellboy lifted the battered kitbag and led the way to the elevator. “Bawth!” said the night clerk, as the elevator door slithered to the latch. “Bawth! The old dear!” He returned to his chair, hoping that he would not be disturbed again until he was relieved. What do we care, so long as we don't know? What's the stranger to us but a fleeting shadow? The Odysseys that pass us every day, and we none the wiser! The clerk had not properly floated away into dreams when he was again roused. Resentfully he opened his eyes. A huge fist covered with a fell of black hair rose and fell. Attached to this fist was an arm, and joined to that were enormous shoulders. The clerk's trailing, sleep-befogged glance paused when it reached the newcomer's face. The jaws and cheeks and upper lip were blue-black with a beard that required extra-tempered razors once a day. Black eyes that burned like opals, a bullet-shaped head well cropped, and a pudgy nose broad in the nostrils. Because this second arrival wore his hat well forward the clerk was not able to discern the pinched forehead of the fanatic. Not wholly unpleasant, not particularly agreeable; the sort of individual one preferred to walk round rather than bump into. The clerk offered the register, and the squat man scratched his name impatiently, grabbed the extended key, and trotted to the elevator. “Ah,” mused the clerk, “we have with us Mr. Poppy--Popo--” He stared at the signature close up. “Hanged if I can make it out! It looks like some new brand of soft drink we'll be having after July first. Greek or Bulgarian. Anyhow, he didn't awsk for a bawth. Looks as if he needed one, too. Here, boy!” “Ye-ah!” “Take a peek at this John Hancock.” “Gee! That must be the guy who makes that drugstore drink--Boolzac.” The clerk swung out, but missed the boy's head by a hair. The boy stood off, grinning. “Well, you ast me!” “All right. If anybody else comes in tell 'em we're full up. I'll be a wreck to-morrow without my usual beauty sleep.” The clerk dropped into his chair again and elevated his feet to the radiator. “Want me t' git a pillow for yuh?”