Christopher and Columbus
The taxi had stopped in front of a handsome apartment house, and almost before it was
quiet a boy in buttons darted out across the intervening wide pavement and thrust his
face through the window.
"Who do you want?" he said, or rather jerked out.
He then saw the contents of the taxi, and his mouth fell open; for it seemed to him that
grips and passengers were piled up inside it in a seething mass.
"We want Mr. and Mrs. Clouston Sack," said Anna-Rose in her most grown-up voice.
"They're expecting us."
"They ain't," said the boy promptly.
"They ain't?" repeated Anna-Rose, echoing his language in her surprise.
"How do you know?" asked Anna-Felicitas.
"That they ain't? Because they ain't," said the boy. "I bet you my Sunday shirt they ain't."
The twins stared at him. They were not accustomed in their conversations with the
lower classes to be talked to about shirts.
The boy seemed extraordinarily vital. His speech was so quick that it flew out with the
urgency and haste of squibs going off.
"Please open the door," said Anna-Rose recovering herself. "We'll go up and see for
"You won't see," said the boy.
"Kindly open the door," repeated Anna-Rose.
"You won't see," he said, pulling it open, "but you can look. If you do see Sacks up there
I'm a Hun."
The minute the door opened, grips fell out. There were two umbrellas, two coats, a
knapsack of a disreputable bulged appearance repugnant to American ideas of
baggage which run on big simple lines of huge trunks, an attaché case, a suit case, a
hold-all, a basket and a hat-box. Outside beside the driver were two such small and
modest trunks that they might almost as well have been grips themselves.