On the second morning I was splashing in my tub, gratifying that
amphibious instinct which has come down to us from the dim
evolutionary time when we were paleozoic polliwogs, when I made
the discovery that there were no towels in the bathroom.
I glanced
about keenly, seeking for help and guidance in such an emergency.
Set in the wall directly above the rim of the tub was a brass
plate containing two pushbuttons. One button, the uppermost one,
was labeled Waiter - the other was labeled Maid.
This was disconcerting. Even in so short a stay under the roof
of an English hotel I had learned that at this hour the waiter
would be hastening from room to room, ministering to Englishmen
engaged in gumming their vital organs into an impenetrable mass
with the national dish of marmalade; and that the maid would also
be busy carrying shaving water to people who did not need it.
Besides, of all the classes I distinctly do not require when I am
bathing, one is waiters and the other is maids. For some minutes
I considered the situation, without making any headway toward a
suitable solution of it; meantime I was getting chilled. So I
dried myself - sketchily - with a toothbrush and the edge of the
window-shade; then I dressed, and in a still somewhat moist state
I went down to interview the management about it. I first visited
the information desk and told the youth in charge there I wished
to converse with some one in authority on the subject of towels.
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