Part 38 (1/2)
Such was six-eighteen. Martha Foote, luxuriating in that one delicious moment between her 6:30 awakening, and her 6:31 arising, mused on these things. She thought of how, at eleven o'clock the night before, her telephone had rung with the sharp zing! of trouble. The voice of Irish Nellie, on night duty on the sixth floor, had sounded thick-brogued, sure sign of distress with her.
”I'm sorry to be a-botherin' ye, Mis' Phut. It's Nellie speakin'--Irish Nellie on the sixt'.”
”What's the trouble, Nellie?”
”It's that six-eighteen again. She's goin' on like mad. She's carryin'
on something fierce.”
”What about?”
”Th'--th' blankets, Mis' Phut.”
”Blankets?--”
”She says--it's her wurruds, not mine--she says they're vile. Vile, she says.”
Martha Foote's spine had stiffened. ”In this house! Vile!”
If there was one thing more than another upon which Martha Foote prided herself it was the Senate Hotel bed coverings. Creamy, spotless, downy, they were her especial fad. ”Brocade chairs, and pink lamps, and gold snake-work are all well and good,” she was wont to say, ”and so are American Beauties in the lobby and white gloves on the elevator boys.
But it's the blankets on the beds that stamp a hotel first or second cla.s.s.” And now this, from Nellie.
”I know how ye feel, an' all. I sez to 'er, I sez: 'There never was a blanket in this _house_,' I sez, 'that didn't look as if it cud be sarved up wit' whipped cr-ream,' I sez, 'an' et,' I sez to her; 'an'
fu'thermore,' I sez--”
”Never mind, Nellie. I know. But we never argue with guests. You know that rule as well as I. The guest is right--always. I'll send up the linen-room keys. You get fresh blankets; new ones. And no arguments. But I want to see those--those vile--”
”Listen, Mis' Phut.” Irish Nellie's voice, until now shrill with righteous anger, dropped a discreet octave. ”I seen 'em. An' they _are_ vile. Wait a minnit! But why? Becus that there maid of hers--that yella'
hussy--give her a body ma.s.sage, wit' cold cream an' all, usin' th'
blankets f'r coverin', an' smearin' 'em right _an'_ lift. This was afther they come back from th' theayter. Th' crust of thim people, using the iligent blankets off'n the beds t'--”
”Good night, Nellie. And thank you.”
”Sure, ye know I'm that upset f'r distarbin' yuh, an' all, but--”
Martha Foote cast an eye toward the great walnut bed. ”That's all right.
Only, Nellie--”
”Yesm'm.”
”If I'm disturbed again on that woman's account for anything less than murder--”
”Yesm'm?”
”Well, there'll _be_ one, that's all. Good night.”
Such had been Monday's cheerful close.