Telephone. "Buzz! Zut! Ting!"
Ravenslee. "Thanks. Hello, that Thirty-three Wall? Dana and Anderson's Office? Good! I want to speak with Mr. Anderson—say Mr. Ravenslee."
Telephone. "Zing!"
Ravenslee. "Thanks. That you, Anderson?"
Telephone. "Pang!"
Ravenslee. "Thanks—very well! What the devil's wrong with this instrument of torment—can you hear me?"
Telephone. "Crack!"
Ravenslee. "Good! Yes—that's better! Now listen; I want you to do some business for me. No, I'm buying, not selling. I'm going into real estate. What, a bad speculation? Well, anyway, I'm buying tenement property in Tenth Avenue, known as Mulligan's, I believe. Oh, you've heard of it, eh? Not in the market? Not for sale? Well, I'll buy it. Oh, yes, you can—what d' you suppose is his figure? So much? Phew! Oh, well, double it. No, I'm not mad, Anderson. No, nor drunk—I just happen to want Mulligan's—and I'll have it. When can you put the deal through? Oh, nonsense, make him sell at once—get him on the 'phone. Oh, yes, he will, if you offer enough—Mulligan would sell his mother—at his own price. You quite understand—at once, mind! All right, good-by. No, I'm not mad—nor drunk, man; I haven't tasted a cocktail for a month. Eh—go and get one? I will!"
So saying, Ravenslee hung up the receiver and hastened out of the stifling heat of the suffocating booth, mopping perspiring brow.
"You look kinder warm!" ventured the chemist.