Through two interminable hours the thing went on and on like that.
Several times, in the first hour, we tried to stop him by this means or that, but after awhile we learned that interruptions only opened other floodgates, and that it was best, upon the whole, to try to cultivate a state of inner numbness, and let his voice roll on.
Sometimes I fancied that I was becoming passive and resigned. Then suddenly a wave of hate would come boiling up inside me, and my fingers would itch to be at the man's throat: to strangle him, not rapidly, but slowly, so that he would suffer. I wanted to see his tongue hang out, his eyes bulge, and his face turn blue; to see him swell up, as he kept generating words, inside, until at last, being unable to emit them, he should burst, like an overcharged balloon.
Once or twice I was on the verge of leaping at him, but then I would think to myself: "No; I must not consider my own pleasure. If I kill him it will get into the New York papers, and my family and friends will not understand it, because they have not heard him talk."
[Illustration: We believed we had encountered every kind of "booster"
that creeps, crawls, walks, crows, cries, bellows, barks or brays, but it remained for the Exposition to show us a new specimen]
Somehow or other my companion and I managed to survive until lunch time, but then we insisted upon being taken back to the St. Francis. He did not want to take us. He did not like to let us escape, even for an hour, for it was only too evident that several five-foot-shelves of books were still inside him, eager to get out.
At the door of the hotel he said: "I could stop and lunch with you. In that way we would lose no time. Ah, there is so much to be told! What city in the world can vie with San Francisco either in the beauty or the natural advantages of her situation? Indeed there are but two places in Europe--Constantinople and Gibraltar--that combine an equally perfect landscape with what may be called an equally imperial position. Yes, I think we had better remain together during this brief midday period at which, from time immemorial, it has been the custom of the human race to minister to the wants of the inner man, as the great bard puts it."
"Thank you," said my companion, firmly. "We appreciate the offer, but we have an engagement to lunch, to-day, with several friends who are troubled with bubonic plague and Asiatic cholera."
"So be it," said our warden. "I shall return for you within the hour. It shall be my pleasure, as well as my duty, to show you all points of interest, to give you a brief historical sketch of this coveted Mecca of men's dreams, to tell you of its awakening, of the bringing of order out of chaos, of...."
It was still going on as we entered the hotel, and from a window, we saw that he was sitting alone in the tonneau, talking to himself, as the motor drove away.
"How long will it take you to pack?" my companion asked me.
"About an hour," I said.
"There's a train for New York at two," said he.
We moved over to the porter's desk, and were arranging for tickets and reservations when the Exposition Official, who had assigned our guide to us, passed through the lobby.
"Did you enjoy your morning?" he inquired.
We gazed at him for a moment, in silence. Then, in a hoarse voice, I managed to say: "We shall not go out with him this afternoon."
"But he is counting on it," protested the Official.
"_We shall not go out with him this afternoon!_" said my companion, in a voice that caused heads to turn.
"Why not?" inquired the other.
I was afraid that my companion might say something rude, so I replied.
"We are going away from here," I declared.
"Oh," said the Official, "if you have to leave town, it can't be helped.
But if you should stay in San Francisco and refuse to go out with him again, it might hurt his feelings."
"Good!" returned my companion. "We won't go until to-morrow."
CHAPTER XL
NEW YORK AGAIN
On my first night in San Francisco I sat up late, unpacking and distributing my things about my room; it was early morning when I was ready to retire, and it occurred to me that I had better leave a call.
"Please call me at nine," I said to the telephone operator.
"Nine o'clock," she repeated, and in a voice like a caress, added: "Good-night."
It was very pleasant to be told good-night, like that, even though the sweet voice was strange, and came over a wire; for my companion and I had been traveling for a long, long time, and though the strangers we had met had been most hospitable, and though many of them had soon ceased to be strangers, and had become friends, and though we had often said--and not without sincerity--that we "felt very much at home," we had now reached a state of mind in which we realized that, to say one "feels at home" when one is not actually at home, is, after all, to stretch the truth a little.
I must have gone to sleep immediately and I knew nothing more until I was awakened in the morning by the tinkle of the telephone.
I jumped out of bed and answered.
"Good-morning, Mr. Street," came a voice even sweeter than that of the night before. "Nine o'clock."
As I may have mentioned previously, I do not, as a rule, feel cheerful on the moment of arising, especially in a strange room, a strange hotel, and a strange city. But the pleasant personal note contained in that morning greeting, the charming tone in which it was delivered, and perhaps, in addition, the great warm patch of melted California gold which lay upon the carpet near my window--these things combined to make me feel awake, alive and happy, at the beginning of the day.
Every night, after that, I left a call, whether I really wished to be called, or not, just for the sake of the "good-night," and the "good-morning" with my name appended. For it is very pleasant to be known, in a great hotel, as something more than a mere number.
I said to myself, "That morning operator has learned from the papers that I am here. She has probably read things I have written, and is interested in me. Doubtless she boasts to her friends: 'Julian Street, the author, is stopping down at the hotel. I call him every morning. He has a pleasant voice. I wish I could see him, once.'"
Because of modesty I did not mention this flattering attention to my companion until the day before we left San Francisco, and then I was only induced to speak of it by something which occurred when we were shopping.
It was at Gump's--that most fascinating Oriental store--and having made a purchase which I wished them to deliver, I mentioned my name and address to the clerk who, however, seemed to have some difficulty in getting it correctly, setting me down at first as "Mr. Julius Sweet."
When my companion chose to taunt me about that, dwelling with apparent delight upon the painfully evident fact that my name meant nothing to the clerk, I retorted:
"That makes no difference. The telephone operator at the St. Francis calls me by name every morning."
"So she does me," he returned.
I did not believe him. I could not think that this beautiful young girl--I was sure that any girl with such a voice must be young and beautiful--would cheapen her vocal favors by dispensing them broadcast.
For her to coo my name to me each morning was merely a delicate attention, but for her to do the same to him seemed, somehow, brazen.
I pondered the matter as I went to bed that night, and in the morning, when the bell rang, I thought of it immediately.
"Hello."
"Good-morning, Mr. Street. Eight o'clock," came the mellifluous cadences.
"Good-morning," I replied. "This is the last time you will call me, so I want to say good-by, and thank you. You and the other operator always say 'good-night' and 'good-morning' very pleasantly and I wish you to know I have appreciated it. And when _you_ call me you always do so by name. That has pleased me too."
"Thank you," she said--and oh! the dulcet tone in which she spoke the words.
"How did you happen to know my name?" I asked.