“What’s the matter?” Frank forced his paralyzed tongue to form the words. “Tom! Oh, Tom! What’s wrong? Why did you yell?”
“Help! Send for help!” rang back the answer. “It’s awful”—followed by words so filled with mortal terror that Frank could make nothing of them and then—“Get Dad! Get the police!”
Frank waited to hear no more. Dropping the
receivers he leaped across the room, jerked the receiver from the telephone and frantically called for Mr. Pauling’s number. But in his fright and terror, his fear for Tom, his hurried words were a mere jumble to the operator.
“Can’t hear you,” came the girl’s voice. “What number did you say?”
Again Frank yelled. “Watkins 6636!” he cried, striving to make his words clear.
“Watkins 3666?” inquired the girl, and Frank could almost hear her masticating gum.
“No, 6636!” he screamed. “Hurry!”
The seconds that followed seemed like years to Frank. Across his brain flashed a thousand fears and he suffered untold agonies as he stood there, sweat pouring from his face. What if Mr. Pauling should not be in his office? Suppose the line were busy? What if the girl got the wrong number? How slow she was! Had she forgotten the call? Would no one answer? And then, when he was sure he must have waited hours, his heart gave a great leap, a load seemed lifted from his mind as he heard Mr. Pauling’s cheery, deep-throated:
“Hello! Who is it?”