"I am Lieutenant-Commander John Mathison," he announced, a bit out of breath for his run up the stairs.
"What's the difficulty?" asked the manager, coolly. "Anchor afoul my unlighted sign?"
Mathison laughed. He understood at once that here was a good sport. "Pardon my abruptness," he apologized. "I'd like to use your telephone."
The manager waved his hand. He heard Mathison's side of the conversation.
"Mathison. What's the report from Fiftieth Street?... The woman still inside? Thanks.... No, that's all." Mathison hung up the receiver dreamily.
"What's happened?" asked Rubin, ironically. "Have we sunk the German fleet?"
"We are going to," said Mathison. "I want a messenger the quickest way I can get him."
"War stuff?" thrilled in spite of his resentment at the intrusion. Rubin was an autocrat in the theatrical world.
"Well, I don't believe you'd call it that. I want to get some flowers."