"Zincas Importing Company? I want to speak to Mr. Max Zincas."
Wrinkles crawled about her uncertain lips.
"This is his—his mother. Yes, Mrs. Zincas."
She closed her eyes as she waited.
"Hello, Max? That you, Max?"
She grasped at the snout of the instrument, tiptoeing up to it.
"It's me, dear. But—I had to get you to the 'phone somehow. I—I—No, no, don't hang up, Max! Don't hang up, dear, I—I got to tell you something; I got to, dear."
She raised herself closer to the mouthpiece for a tighter clutch of it.
"I'm sick, dearie. I—I'm dog sick, dearie. 'Ain't been about in a week. The limp is bad and I'm sick all over. I am, dear. Come up to supper to-night, dearie. You 'ain't been near for—for a week. I got to see you about something. Just a quiet talk, dearie. I—I just got to see you, Max. I—I'm sick, dog sick."
Her voice slipped up and away for the moment, and she crammed her lacy fribble of a handkerchief tight against her lips, tiptoeing closer to the transmitter.