256
PARTISAN REVIEW
the "worked" covers on the albums for, smooth and round, they
resembled human organs as I recalled them from the colored diagrams
in my hygiene book.
A voice I did not know well inquired, "Has the Hotel Barstow
always had a restricted clientele?"
"No, indeed!" cried Mrs. McKenzie. "About three years ago, a
new manager came, a really vulgar person whom I'm perfectly cer–
tain was a Jew although
his
name was Mr. Watkins. And by the
time I arrived-! came a little late that year-the Hotel was swarm–
ing with uninvestigated guests. I daresay we won't forget Mr. John–
son in a hurry, will we?"
The story of Mr. Johnson, one of the veranda favorites, was
retold for the newcomer. From what walk of life he had come was
impossible for anyone to tell. But he was no gentleman as a child
could see in the first glance at his reversible silk shirts, his diamond
tie-pin, his bright orange oxfords and his loud, checked jacket. He
teased the old ladies by putting a bottle of bootleg whiskey on
his
table in the dining room in imitation of their phials of medicine. "Oh,
my hair hurts so," he would say and take a drink. He carried a walk–
ing stick, although he was neither a cripple nor a great walker, and
the other guests thought it was probably hollow and contained a
rapier.
"I've heard of such a thing, you know," said Mrs. McKenzie.
"When my poor sister was in Wie.sbaden taking the baths for her
arthritis which nothing on earth would cure-how much money she
spent I couldn't tell you and she must have suffered twenty years–
there was a man living in a pension a block away who was proved
beyond a shadow of a doubt to have a rapier in
his
stick."
"But now," pursued the unfamiliar voice, "now your manager
is discreet?"
"Oh, Mr. Hagerthom is the soul of caution. He caters solely to
those of us who have been coming here for at least twenty years.
We call ourselves the Barstow family."
Mr. Hagethom, pleased with the compliment that had come to
his
attentive pink ears, bawled in authority, "Sonie, clean up around
the ferns there. Don't dawdle." The ferns and several potted palms
made a little triangular garden in the far comer of the lobby, and as
I made my way towards them, I perceived Miss Pride, sitting erect
on a straight chair, half, hidden by the foliage. This was her reading
hour. Today she held
The Atlantic Monthly
directly in front of her.
Her thin lips were set in concentration beneath her short, sharp nose
with its contracted nares. She did not look up when I knelt down,
