Each of us, I think, adopts a comfortable and familiar era or place in which to plant ourselves; and from then on, that which disagrees with our memories—a new building here, a change in paint there—is forever jarring and anachronistic.
Breaking into my musings, Rollins barked at the porter, “George, put the trunk up top!”
As the older man struggled to tie the large box to the roof of the Packard, I said to Beveridge, “I’ve worked with Sherlock Holmes for more than twenty years, and yet I haven’t the foggiest notion of how your man there deduced the name of the porter.”
“Ah,”—Beveridge smiled—”You call all porters ‘George’—after the ones who work in railroad stations. They’re named for George Pullman, the man who invented the sleeping car.”
I observed the old porter labouring under the gaze of the younger man. The former had seemed to wince when Rollins spoke. I thought it was owing to the chauffeur’s tone, but now I realised it was the pejorative name. Not counting the ferocious pygmy who met his death that dark night on the Thames, the only Negro with whom I had any dealings was Steve Dixie, the bellicose boxer known as “Black Steve” of the old Spencer-John gang; no more threatening a ruffian would anyone care to meet. I had never before concerned myself with why a man of the coloured race might be so contentious; but after mere minutes on American soil, I seemed to be confronting the questions a mixed society raises.
“Get to know Rollins and the Packard, Doctor,” Beveridge was saying, oblivious to my thoughts, “because I am going to make them available to you and Mr. Holmes. I’ll be staying at my club on Vanderbilt Row, but Rollins will be waiting in front of your hotel whenever you need him; his aid should make your investigations run a lot smoother than if you have to depend on New York hacks.”
Watching Rollins oversee the porter who was still bundling my trunk atop the automobile, I didn’t need to be a detective of even an amateur variety to wonder for whom the chauffeur would be performing the greater service: for me and the start of our investigation or for Beveridge who now had in place a pair of eyes and ears that could record for his employer much that I, and later Holmes, might uncover. But such suspicions were easily eclipsed by more threatening concerns. After finally seating ourselves in the Packard, we rolled into the mainstream of motor traffic in that amazing cosmopolis—on the wrong side of the carriageway!
“Calm yourself, Doctor.” Beveridge chuckled at my dismay. “You’re forgetting that we drive on the opposite side of the street here in America. Believe me, with Rollins at the helm you have nothing to fear.”
Before I could reply, the Packard abruptly halted with a short screech. We had barely escaped running into the vehicle in front of us.
In contrast to my own anxiety, Beveridge responded calmly, “You see, it’s just as I told you, Rollins can drive with the best of them.”
Trusting that Beveridge was correct and placing myself in the hands of Providence, I leaned back in the deep cushionsand gazed out the window at the buildings standing tall in the waning sunlight. As much as I wanted to see the sights, however, Beveridge claimed my attention.
“Even on this side of the Atlantic, Doctor,” he said, “we know of your exploits with Sherlock Holmes. Thanks to your own magnificent storytelling.”
“They’re not stories, you see—”
“Keep your shirt on, Doctor. No offence intended. I’m simply trying to make your acquaintance and explain how much I’m looking forward to meeting Sherlock Holmes.”
I expected Beveridge to recount some adventure of Holmes that he particularly admired, but he suddenly became pensive and silent. After a minute or two and a deep breath, he said with resolve, “I’m fully prepared to help you get to the bottom of Graham’s death, Doctor.” He paused for another moment and then, to
Breaking into my musings, Rollins barked at the porter, “George, put the trunk up top!”
As the older man struggled to tie the large box to the roof of the Packard, I said to Beveridge, “I’ve worked with Sherlock Holmes for more than twenty years, and yet I haven’t the foggiest notion of how your man there deduced the name of the porter.”
“Ah,”—Beveridge smiled—”You call all porters ‘George’—after the ones who work in railroad stations. They’re named for George Pullman, the man who invented the sleeping car.”
I observed the old porter labouring under the gaze of the younger man. The former had seemed to wince when Rollins spoke. I thought it was owing to the chauffeur’s tone, but now I realised it was the pejorative name. Not counting the ferocious pygmy who met his death that dark night on the Thames, the only Negro with whom I had any dealings was Steve Dixie, the bellicose boxer known as “Black Steve” of the old Spencer-John gang; no more threatening a ruffian would anyone care to meet. I had never before concerned myself with why a man of the coloured race might be so contentious; but after mere minutes on American soil, I seemed to be confronting the questions a mixed society raises.
“Get to know Rollins and the Packard, Doctor,” Beveridge was saying, oblivious to my thoughts, “because I am going to make them available to you and Mr. Holmes. I’ll be staying at my club on Vanderbilt Row, but Rollins will be waiting in front of your hotel whenever you need him; his aid should make your investigations run a lot smoother than if you have to depend on New York hacks.”
Watching Rollins oversee the porter who was still bundling my trunk atop the automobile, I didn’t need to be a detective of even an amateur variety to wonder for whom the chauffeur would be performing the greater service: for me and the start of our investigation or for Beveridge who now had in place a pair of eyes and ears that could record for his employer much that I, and later Holmes, might uncover. But such suspicions were easily eclipsed by more threatening concerns. After finally seating ourselves in the Packard, we rolled into the mainstream of motor traffic in that amazing cosmopolis—on the wrong side of the carriageway!
“Calm yourself, Doctor.” Beveridge chuckled at my dismay. “You’re forgetting that we drive on the opposite side of the street here in America. Believe me, with Rollins at the helm you have nothing to fear.”
Before I could reply, the Packard abruptly halted with a short screech. We had barely escaped running into the vehicle in front of us.
In contrast to my own anxiety, Beveridge responded calmly, “You see, it’s just as I told you, Rollins can drive with the best of them.”
Trusting that Beveridge was correct and placing myself in the hands of Providence, I leaned back in the deep cushionsand gazed out the window at the buildings standing tall in the waning sunlight. As much as I wanted to see the sights, however, Beveridge claimed my attention.
“Even on this side of the Atlantic, Doctor,” he said, “we know of your exploits with Sherlock Holmes. Thanks to your own magnificent storytelling.”
“They’re not stories, you see—”
“Keep your shirt on, Doctor. No offence intended. I’m simply trying to make your acquaintance and explain how much I’m looking forward to meeting Sherlock Holmes.”
I expected Beveridge to recount some adventure of Holmes that he particularly admired, but he suddenly became pensive and silent. After a minute or two and a deep breath, he said with resolve, “I’m fully prepared to help you get to the bottom of Graham’s death, Doctor.” He paused for another moment and then, to
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