There is a man behind a desk, a majestic sort of
man, waving his hand. It would be sheer madness to claim
acquaintance with him. There is another with a great book,
adjusting cards in it; and another, behind glass labelled
"Cashier," and busy as a bank; there are two with mail
and telegrams. They are all too busy to know me.
Shall I sneak up near to them, keeping my satchel in my
hand? I wonder, do they _see_ me? _Can_ they see me, a
mere thing like me? I am within ten feet of them, but I
am certain that they cannot see me. I am, and I feel it,
absolutely invisible.
Ha! One has seen me. He turns to me, or rather he rounds
upon me, with the words "Well, sir?" That, and nothing
else, sharp and hard. There is none of the ancient kindly
pretence of knowing my name, no reaching out a welcome
hand and calling me Mr. Er--Er--till he has read my name
upside down while I am writing it and can address me as
a familiar friend. No friendly questioning about the
crops in my part of the country. The crops, forsooth!
What do these young men know about crops?
A room? Had I any reservation? Any which? Any reservation.
Oh, I see, had I written down from home to say that I
was coming? No, I had not because the truth is I came at
very short notice.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148