“We surely are,” Jim laughed. “Bob’s mother is crazy about it, says it’s exactly like when she was a girl in Vermont—you know—”
“When she lived on the farm, by the waters of Lake Champlain.”
“Right you are. Well, it’s great to see you, and your father wants to speak to you. So long, Old Man.”
“So long, Jim, Old Scout; here’s to the membrane on your proboscis.”
“Aw, go on, that’s no way to say—skin on your nose,” Jim laughed.
“My son has not proved to be a very good student of slang,” the Don chuckled, then, for several minutes the two spoke in that strange language which Jim had not been able to attribute to any race. Finally the father and son were finished, then the man moved to the further end of the room. Again the two sat down before a dial board, but this time the screen was more like a moving picture.
“Will this be yesterday—last night, I mean?” the boy asked.
“Yes, and perhaps it will answer your question.”