He wondered if they had left a drink for him.
"Who are you?" demanded his drunken double.
Wilson turned to "Joe." "He knows me," he said significantly.
"Joe," studied him. "Yes," he conceded, "yes, I suppose I do. But what the deuce are you here for? And why are you trying to bust up the plan?"
Wilson interrupted him. "No time for long-winded explanations, I know more about it than you do―you'll concede that―and my judgment is bound to be better than yours. He doesn't go through the Gate."
"I don't concede anything of the sort―"
The ringing of the telephone checked the argument. Wilson greeted the interruption with relief, for he realized that he had started out on the wrong tack. Was it possible that he was really as dense himself as this lug appeared to be? Did he look that way to other people? But the time was too short for self-doubts and soul- searching. "Answer it!" he commanded Bob (Boiled) Wilson.
The drunk looked belligerent, but acceded when he saw that Bob (Joe) Wilson was about to beat him to it.
"Hello. Yes. Who is this?. Hello. Hello!"
"Who was that?" asked "Joe."