It
was the same old lift--a tired feeling seems to permeate these
gentlemen, as if they were bored to death. A hotel clerk on the Riviera
sometimes has this lift when he tells you he has not a bed in the house
and you tell him he--prevaricates. I knew something of the lift--
had already cost me five francs. I knew, too, what kind of medicine that
sort of tired feeling needed, and that until the bribe was paid the
young woman and her party would be bedless.
My own anger was now aroused. Here was a woman, rather a pretty woman,
an Anglo-Saxon--my own race--in a strange city and under the power of a
minion whose only object was plunder. That she jumped through hoops or
rode bareback in absurdly short clothes, or sold pink lemonade in
spangles, made no difference. She was in trouble, and needed assistance.
I advanced with my best bow.
"Madam, can I do anything for you?"
She turned, and, with a grateful smile, said:
"Oh, you speak English?"
I again inclined my head.
"Well, sir, we have come from St.
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