Again I would go down to the waterways in
steamers packed with vociferous, bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks
and shop-girls to their crude pleasures on the island shores. And there
was always Broadway--glistening, opulent, wily, varying, desirable
Broadway--growing upon one like an opium habit.
One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a
black mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed
around him, he greet me with offensive familiarity.
"Hello, Bellford!" he cried, loudly. "What the deuce are you doing in
New York? Didn't know anything could drag you away from that old book
den of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone,
eh?"
"You have made a mistake, sir," I said, coldly, releasing my hand from
his grasp. "My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me."
The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I walked to the
clerk's desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about
telegraph blanks.
"You will give me my bill," I said to the clerk, "and have my baggage
brought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am annoyed
by confidence men."
I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a sedate, old-fashioned one on
lower Fifth Avenue.
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