“‘Not a cent,’ says Denver, cheerful. ‘The syndicate that owns the hotel puts up. I’m manager.’
“The Brunswick wasn’t one of them Broadway pothouses all full of palms and hyphens and flowers and costumes—kind of a mixture of lawns and laundries. It was on one of the East Side avenues; but it was a solid, old-time caravansary such as the Mayor of Skaneateles or the Governor of Missouri might stop at. Eight stories high it stalked up, with new striped awnings, and the electrics had it as light as day.
“‘I’ve been manager here for a year,’ says Denver, as we drew nigh. ‘When I took charge,’ says he, ‘nobody nor nothing ever stopped at the Brunswick. The clock over the clerks’ desk used to run for weeks without winding. A man fell dead with heart-disease on the sidewalk in front of it one day, and when they went to pick him up he was two blocks away. I figured out a scheme to catch the West Indies and South American trade. I persuaded the owners to invest a few more thousands, and I put every cent of it in electric lights, cayenne pepper, gold-leaf, and garlic. I got a Spanish-speaking force of employees and a string band; and there was talk going around of a cockfight in the basement every Sunday. Maybe I didn’t catch the nut-brown gang! From Havana to Patagonia the Don Señors knew about the Brunswick. We get the high-fliers from Cuba and Mexico and the couple of Americas farther south; and they’ve simply got the boodle to bombard every bullfinch in the bush with.’
“When we get to the hotel, Denver stops me at the door.
