His first shock came when the taxi drew up in front of a narrow-fronted, exceedingly tall building, equipped with revolving doors, while a hall-porter, dressed like an archduke, peered through the window and inquired severely: "Have you reserved a room, sir ?" Yes, this was the Central Hotel, rebuilt, gone skyward, in full cry after its more pretentious _a la carte_ neighbors, and the hall-porter was pained by the mere suspicion that the fact was not accepted of all the world of travel.
Although the newcomer confessed that he had not made any reservation of rooms, the Archduke graciously permitted him to alight--indeed, quelled an incipient rebellion on Curtis's part by ordering a couple of negroes to disappear with most of the baggage.

So Curtis announced meekly to a super-clerk that he wanted a room with a bathroom, and was allowed to register.

As in a dream, he signed "John D.Curtis, Pekin," and was promptly annoyed at finding what he had written, because, being a citizen of New York, he had meant to claim the distinction, and ignore his long years in Cathay.
"You'll find 605 a comfortable, quiet room, Mr.Curtis," said the clerk.

"Going to make a long stay, may I ask ?" "A few days--perhaps a fortnight.

I cannot say offhand." "Well, sir, I can't fix you better than in 605." From some points of view, the clerk had never uttered a truer word.