Eves walked across to the telephone box in the corner. The following conversation ensued.
"Hullo!"
"Are you Mr. Wilkins?"
"Am I Wilkins, Bob?" (in a whisper).
"Say you're the British Motor Garage," said Templeton. "Wilkins is out."
"Are you there? Righto! We're the British Motor Garage."
"Well, I say, sorry to trouble you, but Noakes's 'phone is out of order. Tell him he can cut his tender thirty per cent.: no other offers."
"Hold on a jiff." Eves moved from the mouthpiece and turned towards Templeton. "Noakes again, Bob. Our worthy mayor. You're to give him a message, something about cutting a tender."
"Tell him I know nothing about Noakes."
"Righto! Leave it to me.... Hullo! A tender cut, you said?"