INNS AND OUTS.

NO.  I.—­“MISTER.”

In a “Grand Hotel” again; abroad; never mind which or where; have experienced many Inns and many outings, but find all Grand Hotels much the same.  “Lawn-tennis, English Church in the Spa_t_ious Grounds, good station for friends of the Fisch-Sport.”—­But the quintessence of Grand-Hotelism is “Mr.” in his Bureau.

The main thing about “Mr.” is his frock-coat ("made in Germany").  It is always buttoned; he is never without it; I believe he sleeps in it.  Divest him of this magician’s robe (so to speak) and he would be powerless.

The Hotel omnibus clatters in; “Mr.” confronts us, smiling and serene, with his two Secretaries of Legation.  He discriminates the Inn-comers at a glance.—­“Numero 10, 11, 12, entresol;” for Noah-like Paterfamilias with Caravan; “Numero 656, for se Leddy’s med;” “Numero 80, for me, the soi-disant Habitue;” it’s the room I’m supposed to have always had, so I pretend to like it.  One Unremunerative-looking Pedestrian, in knickerbockers, is assured that, if he waits half a day or so, he may get an attic—­“Back of se house; fine view of se sluice-gate and cemetery.”—­U.-L.P. expostulates; he has telegraphed for a good room; it’s too bad.—­“Ver’ sawy, but is quite complete now, se Hotel.”  U.-L.P., furious; “Hang it,” &c.  “Mr.” deprecates this ingratitude—­“Ver’ sawy, Sor; but if you don’t like,” (with decision), “se whole wide wurrld is open to you!” Pedestrian retires, threatening to write to the Times.  Preposterous! as if the Editor would print anything against “Mr.”!  “Mr.’s” attitude majestic and martyred; CASABIANCA in a frock-coat!  Bless you! he knows us all, better than we know ourselves.  He sees the Cook’s ticket through the U.-L.P.’s Norfolk-jacket.

[Illustration:  “He sees the Cook’s ticket through the U.-L.P.’s Norfolk-jacket.”]

When “Mr.” is not writing, he is changing money.  The sheepish Briton stands dumb before this financier, and is shorn—­of the exchange, with an oafish fascination at “Mr.’s” dexterous manipulation of the rouleaux of gold and notes.  Nobody dares haggle with “Mr.”  When he is not changing money, he is, as I have said, writing, perhaps his Reminiscences.  It is “Mr.”  “What gif you se informations;” and what questions!  The seasoned Pensionnaire wants to know how she can get to that lovely valley where the Tiger-lilies grow, without taking a carriage.  The British Matron, where she can buy rusks, “real English rusks, you know.”  A cantankerous tripper asks “why he never has bread-sauce with the nightly chicken.”  And we all troop to “Mr.” after breakfast, to beg him to affix postage-stamps to our letters, and to demand the precise time when “they will reach England;” as if they wouldn’t reach at all without “Mr.’s” authority.  It gives the nervous a sense of security to watch “Mr.” stamping envelopes.  It is a way of beginning the day in a Grand Hotel.