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Updated: April 30, 2025
There was a pathos in his face that could hardly be denied and there was no reason for denying him. "Certainly, Mr. Burton," he agreed. "I'll instruct the door-man not to let any one else in unless you have friends you'd like to take with you." Paul shook his head. "I'd rather be alone," he said.
He made a wild, threatening gesture and, as his hansom drove on, muttered and mumbled to himself, vague profanity aimed at nothing and at everything. At the Edison Building he got out. "Wait!" he said to the driver. He did not see the impudent smirk on the face of the elevator boy nor the hesitating, sheepish salutation of the door-man, uncertain how to greet the fallen king.
The door-man told you about Margaret, did he not? No? How careless of him. The dear child has a headache and has gone to bed." "Has she?" said Lennox. He found but that. But at least he understood why Margaret had not come to his rooms. The headache had prevented her. "It is nothing." Mrs. Austen was telling him. "To-morrow she will be herself again. Nice weather we are having."
The door-man in his hotel had them all in his little room, and, discovering one day that their guest, Samuel L. Clemens, and Mark Twain were one, he nearly exploded with excitement. Dragging the author to his small room, he pointed to the shelf: "There," he said, "you wrote them! I've found it out. Ach! I did not know it before, and I ask a million pardons."
As the door-man disappeared Doc Woodruff glanced at his watch, then said with a smile: "You've been here seven minutes and a half just time for a lookout down stairs to telephone to the Auditorium and for the messenger to drive from there here. Goodrich is on the anxious-seat, all right." The messenger was Goodrich's handy-man, Judge Dufour.
Kidneys, isn't it?" "No. Rheumatism. I'm a beehive swarmin' with pains." "To be sure. It's Hemphill, the door-man at the Columbus, who has the floating kidney. I paid for his operation." "Hemphill. Operation! Ha!" The Judge cackled in a voice hoarse from alcoholic excesses. "He bilked you, Mr. Pope. He's the guy that put the kid in kidney. There's nothing wrong with him.
One evening, in a Southern California city, as I left my room ready for the first act of this play, the door-man told me a young woman had coaxed so hard to see me, for just one moment, that ignoring orders he had come to ask me if he might bring her in; she was not begging for anything, just a moment's interview.
But his size and the size of his smile had won for Ambrose the coveted and uniformed position of door-man, a post at which he served with considerable success and the incidental tips. The recently wealthy Mr. Braumbauer, for instance, really felt that he was somebody, when Ambrose opened the door of his car and bowed him under the portcullis of Swalecliffe.
Slowly Abey Lewis turned from the receiver he had abruptly hung up and beckoned the subordinate who had first taken the message. "Don't mention this to anybody," directed the chief tersely. "Do you get me? The girl mustn't hear it and if any telegrams or messages come, you bring 'em to me, first, see?" Then to the stage door-man he gave a similar command, and looked at his watch.
"They all come bustin' past 'ere yelling there's a fire," persisted the door-man. "By George! Now I come to think of it, you're perfectly right! There is a fire! If you wait here a little longer, you'll get it in the small of the back. Take the advice of an old friend who means you well and vanish. In the inspired words of the lad we've just parted from, 'op it!"
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