The porter who came upon George Banks in the morning was a fat jolly
person who had made many a friend and many a tip by his big-hearted
way. He placed hand on the shoulder of the Banks blue silk pajamas.
He shook ever so gently. He knew that you never know what will
happen when you wake the gentlemen up.
"Cap'n, sir," he said in his easiest voice, "better wake up, sir. We
in." There was a faint, almost indefinable sign of life from the
gentleman in the blue pajamas. The porter allowed his pudgy hand to
shake again. "Time you was up, sir," he said more than civilly.
"Gettin'-up time."
He was rewarded with greater activity. The blue-pajamaed body
uncurled itself in the manner of a boa constrictor.
"Wump!" said George Banks.
The hand on his shoulder continued to move gently back and forth.
"Yes, sir. Gettin'-up time. We in a station right this minute."
George Banks turned his head slightly, opened one eye and fixed it on
the porter. He thought deeply for an instant.
"Wump?" he inquired.
"We right at a platform right this minute," the porter repeated.
"This yere's Boston." George Banks sat up straight with both eyes
wide.
"This yere's what?"
"Boston."
"Boston?"
"Boston, I says, Cap'n. Boston's right."
"Boston?"
"You said it."
George Banks sprang to his feet, disregarding the state of his
equilibrial nerves. He took the porter by both shoulders and held
him firmly.
"Now," he said sternly, "you think very carefully and tell me where
we are. One false move may cost you your life. Tell me the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Where are we?"
"Boston, Mass-a-chusitts, Cap'n, sir. I said it and I sticks to it.
Boston, like a little brown bulldog."
The porter of the car Gwendoline was wondering what sort of case he
had to deal with. He saw insanity in the reddish eyes of his man in
blue pajamas.
"Look here," said George Banks, "I got on a train in Chicago
yesterday and that train was going to New York. How can you tell me
I'm waking up in Boston?"
"I ain't told you no lie, Cap'n, sir. I tells you we in Boston
be-cause in Boston we is. 'Is yere car, she come from Chicago last
night and you come with her. 'At's all I know."
"But I had a New York ticket and the conductor took it. I couldn't
have been on the wrong train."
"Wrong train--no, sir. This car, she switch offn that train at
Albany. This yere's the Boston car."
The truth poured into George Banks's tired brain. His clothes, his
money--everything he had had with him was in New York. He released
the porter. His limp arms flopped to his sides. He looked out the
window at the wooden platform.
Suddenly he was galvanized into action. He sprang, knocking the
porter to one side, swished through the curtained door and out to the
station platform. Far away he saw the station. Pausing not, he took
that direction as fast as his slippered feet would carry him, which
was pretty fast, all things considered.
Through the glass swing doors he went across No Man's Land between
station and trains, into the station, down the marble steps.
Civilians and railroad employees stared at him. Women probably
screamed. Children pointed. George Banks rushed on.
Before him was the street. In the street was an empty taxi. That
was all the sprinting young man saw. Beyond that taxi he had no
plans. All he knew was that there might be nameless delays in the
station and in the taxi he was free. He splashed through the muddy
street and jumped on the running board of the taxicab. The driver
turned to him.
"Harvard Square, Cambridge!" shouted George Banks.
He opened the door and got inside. The taxi moved onward with a jerk
that threw him into the seat.
"Them college boys!" sighed the driver to himself. "It's a wonder to
me the things they do. Runnin' through the streets in pejammers!"
Within, George Banks huddled into a corner of the cab and thought
hard. Whom did he know in Boston? There was his father's branch
office, of course; but that would never do. There was old Miss
Cable, his mother's second cousin; but she would serve even worse....
Wait--Jimmy Sayre! Jimmy Sayre, of course! Somewhere in
Cambridge--James M. Sayre, 79--75--
He opened the door and yelled an address into the driver's ear.
The taxi man had to go up to the house and explain things a bit. He
cleared the way and at a signal George Banks ran up the walk at top
speed, causing, even so, considerable amazement among the
breakfasting residents of Cambridge. Jimmy paid the taxi driver and
gave George a bathrobe to cover his blueness.
"Better have a wash and some breakfast," said Jimmy. "Lil'll be down
in a minute. Let me take you upstairs."
But the distracted look was still in George's eyes.
"Telephone," he said briefly.
"Sure, right in here," Jimmy led the way.
"I want to get the manager of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in New York,"
George Banks told the operator. There was fuss and waiting;
interminable waiting, during which George Banks paced the rug and
smoked Jimmy Sayre's cigarettes, Egyptian though they were. His host
asked questions, but George was unable to give coherent answers.
After a while the connection with New York was ready.
"Is this the manager? ... Well, I want to speak to somebody who has
charge of the guests' mail.... Yeah.... All right, listen! I
mailed a letter from Chicago night before last. Addressed to Miss
Mildred Trudeau and marked Hold for Arrival.... Miss Mildred
Trudeau. Mildred.... Yeah, Trudeau. That's right.... Now, I want
that letter destroyed--destroyed, torn up, thrown away.... Yeah....
"What? Oh, don't be dumb. I wrote the letter, I tell you! It isn't
the guests' mail unless the guests get it.... Yeah, but I wrote it;
can't I have you destroy it if I want to? ... How do you know? How
do you know anything? _Do you_ know anything? Of course I wrote it.
How'd I know you had it if I didn't write it? ... Don't be dumb. Why
can't you----"
The conversation continued a minute or two and came to a snappy
conclusion when George Banks gave the Ritz gentleman certain specific
directions as to where to go.
George jiggled the receiver hook and got the long-distance operator
on the line again. He told her to get him the office of the White
Star Line. Again there was a pause of minutes and again the
telephone was ready with New York.
"Hello! White Star Line? Is the _Majestic_ docking this morning?
... She has, you say? What time? ... What time is it now? Do you
suppose most of the passengers are still on the pier? ... Don't be
fresh! I'm asking you for information. Is there any possibility of
reaching one of the passengers by telephone? ... By telephone....
Yeah, I might better run down to the pier myself--in pajamas, from
Boston. Sure, that's a good idea, too! I'm asking you if there's
any chance of reaching one of the passengers by telephone. Is there?
... You're sure? ... No way at all, eh? All right. Thanks."
With a gesture of finality, George Banks put the receiver on the hook.
"Well, Jimmy, I've done all I could, haven't I?"
Jimmy Sayre, who had not the faintest idea of what it was all about,
thought it was best to agree.
"It looks as though you had, Phooey."
"Thank you," said George Banks.
Again he placed the receiver at his ear and asked for long-distance.
There was the shadow of a smile on his face.
"Long-distance, old dear. I'm awfully sorry to break in on your
morning like this," he said. "I hope it isn't too much trouble....
"Will you please get me Great Neck, Long Island, one-one-six-one? ...
Yep.... And ask for Miss Barbara Kittridge."