“Yass indeedy,” said Sambo.  “He’s doin’ it all de time.  Mos’ ob de help in dis hotel is statulary, an’ ef yo’ wants to see a reel lively time ‘foh yo’ goes back home, go to de Zoo an’ see ’em feed de Trojan Hoss, an’ de Cardiff Giant.  He brang bofe dem freaks to life, an’ now he can’t get rid ob ’em.  Dat Trojan Hoss suttinly am a berry debbil.  He stans up gentle as a lamb tell he gets about a hundred an’ fifty people inside o’ him, an’ den he p’tends like he’s gwine to run away, an’ he cyanters, an’ cyanters aroun’, tell ebberybody’s dat seasick dey can’t res’.”

I resolved then and there to see the Trojan Horse, but not to get inside of him.  I never before had suspected that the famous beast had a sense of humor in his makeup.  I was about to make some further inquiry when a bell above us began to sound forth sonorously.

“Massy me!” cried little Sambo, springing to his place in front of the chair.  “Dat’s de third an’ lass call for breakfas’.  We done spent too much time talkin’.”

With which observation, he and his companion, shouldering their burden, trotted along the richly furnished hall to the dining-room.  I then observed a charming feature of life in the Olympian Hotel, and I presume it obtains elsewhere in that favored spot.  There are no such things as stairs within its walls.  From the magnificent office on the ground floor to the glorious dining-room on the forty-eighth, the broad corridor runs round and round and round again with an upward incline that is barely perceptible—­indeed, not perceptible at all either to the eye or to the muscles of the leg.  And while there are the most speedy elevators connecting all the various floors, one can, if one chooses, walk from cellar to roof of this marvellous place without realizing that he is mounting to an unusual elevation.  And in the evening these corridors form a magnificent parade, brilliantly lighted, upon which are to be met all the wealth, beauty, and fashion of Olympus—­alas! that I have no means of returning there with certain of my friends with whom I would share the good things that have come into my life!

But to return to the story.  Sambo and his brother soon “toted” me to the entrance of the dining-room—­graceful little beggars they were, too.

“Your breakfast is ready, sir,” said the head waiter, bowing low.

What impelled me to do so I shall never know, but it was an inspiration.  I seemed to recognize the man at once, and, as I had frequently done on earth to my own advantage, I addressed him by name.

“Having a good season, Memnon?” I said, slipping a silver dollar into his hand.