"How did they both manage to escape the draft?" Thompson asked. "I'm sure Ashe is a Class A man."
"Huh!" the broker snorted. "Necessary government undertakings. Necessary hell! All they had to do with the shipbuilding was to bank their rake-off. I tell you, Thompson, this country has supported the war in great style—but there's been a lot of raw stuff in places where you wouldn't suspect it. I'm not knocking, y' understand. This is no time to knock. But when the war's over, we've got to do some house-cleaning."
Thompson called the shipyard first. In the glow of a sunny September morning he felt that he must have imagined Tommy's attitude. He was a fair-minded man, and he gave Tommy the benefit of the doubt.
But he failed to get in touch with Tommy. A voice informed him politely that Mr. Ashe had left town that morning and would be gone several days.
Thompson hung up the receiver. For at least five minutes he sat debating with himself. Then he took it down again.
"Give me Seymour 365L," he said to Central.
"Hello."
"Is Mr. Carr at home?"
"You have the wrong number," he was answered, and he heard the connection break.
He tried again, and once more the same voice, this time impatiently, said, "Wrong number."