He receives no answer. He would like to talk some more, but he shuts the door and returns to the table. Picking up one of the jars, he regards its opaqueness with a quizzical eye. But it is his and quite evidently it seems to him good. He looks curiously at the three little bottles, smells one of them curiously and hastily replaces the cork. He hesitates. Then he repairs to the dining-room, singing: “Everybody is there!”—and returns immediately with an orange, a knife, and another glass. He cuts the orange, squeezes half of it into a glass, wipes his hands on the fringe of the tablecloth, and adds some of his liquor. He drinks it slowly—he waits. He prepares another potation with the other half of the orange.
No! He does not choke, make horrible faces, nor feel his throat as it goes down. Nor does he stagger. His elation is evinced only by the vague confusion with which he mislays knife, oranges, and glasses.
Impelled by the gregarious instinct of mankind, he again repairs to the door that leads up-stairs, and opens it.
Jerry [calling]. Say, Char-lit! The convention must be over. I wonder who was nominated.
Charlotte. I asked you to shut that door.
But the impulse to express himself, to fuse his new elation into the common good, is irresistible. He goes to the telephone and picks up the receiver.
Jerry. Hello.... Hello, hello. Say! I wonder’f you could tell me who was nominated for President.... All right, give me Information.... Information, I wonder if you could tell me who was nominated for President.... Why not?... Well, that’s information, isn’t it?... It doesn’t matter what kind of information it is. It’s information, isn’t it? Isn’t it? It’s information, isn’t it?... Say, what’s your hurry? [He bobs the receiver up and down.] Hello, give me Long Distance again.... Hello, is this Information?... This is misinformation, eh? Ha-ha! Did you hear that? Misinformation.... I asked for Information.... Well, you’ll do, Long Distance.... Long Distance—how far away are you? A long distance! Ha-ha!... Hello.... Hello!
She has evidently rung off. Jerry does likewise.
Jerry [sarcastically]. Wonderful telephone service! [He goes quickly back to the ’phone and picks up the receiver.] Rottenest telephone service I ever saw! [He slams up and returns to his drink.]
There is a call outside, “Yoo-hoo!” and immediately afterward Doris opens the front door and comes in, followed by Joseph Fish, a red-headed, insipid young man of about twenty-four. Fish is dressed in a ready-made suit with a high belt at the back, and his pockets slant at a rakish angle. He is the product of a small-town high-school and a one-year business course at a state university.