"
Into this last P. Sybarite pelted at the top of his speed and pulled
up puffing, to stare nervously round a place gloomy, cavernous, and
pungent with fragrance of oil, rubber, and gasoline. Here and there
lonely electric bulbs made visible somnolent ranks of motor-cars. Out
of the shadows behind him, presently, came a voice drawling:
"You certainly do take on like you'd lost a power of trouble."
P. Sybarite whirled round as if stung. The speaker occupied a chair
tilted back against the wall, his feet on the rungs, a cigarette
smouldering between his lips in open contempt of the regulations of
the Fire Department and all other admonitions of ordinary
common-sense.
"What can I do for you?" he resumed, nothing about him stirring save
eyes that twinkled as they travelled from head to foot of the odd and
striking figure P. Sybarite presented as _Beelzebub, Knight Errant_.
"Taxi!" the little man panted vociferously.
The other yawned and stretched. "It can't be done," he admitted
fairly. "They ain't no such animal on the premises."
With a gesture P. Sybarite singled out the nearest car.
"What's that?" he demanded angrily.
Shading his eyes, the man examined it with growing wonder which
presently found expression: "As I live, it's an autymobeel!"
"Damn your sense of humour!" stormed P. Sybarite. "What's the matter
with that car?"
"As man to man--nothing.
Pages:
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216