At a quarter of three I took myself to Hazen Kinch’s office. It was not much of an office; not that Hazen could not have afforded a better. But it was up two flights—an attic room ill lighted. A small air-tight stove kept the room stifling hot. The room was also air-tight. Hazen had a table and two chairs, and an iron safe in the corner. He put a pathetic trust in that safe. I believe I could have opened it with a screwdriver. I met him as I climbed the stairs. He said harshly:
“I’m going to telephone. They say the road’s impassable.”
He had no telephone in his office; he used one in the store below. A small economy fairly typical of Hazen.
“I’ll wait in the office,” I told him.
“Go ahead,” he agreed, halfway down the stairs.
I went up to his office and closed the drafts of the stove—it was red-hot—and tried to open the one window, but it was nailed fast. Then Hazen came back up the stairs grumbling.
“Damn the snow!” he said. “The wire is down.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“My house, man! To my house!”
“You wanted to telephone home that you—”