XX
On the night of the election Farley stood at the telephone in Douglas Briggs’s library. “Oh, hello! hello!” he called. “Yes, this is Mr. Briggs’s house. Yes, Congressman Briggs. What?” He glanced at Guy, who sat at the table in the centre of the room. “They’ve shut me off!” he said, disgusted. He rang impatiently. Then he rang again. “Hello! Is this Central? Well, I want Central. Who are you? No, I rang off long ago. Well then, ring off, can’t you?” He turned toward Guy. “Damn that girl!” Then an exclamation in the telephone caused him to say, hastily, “Oh, excuse me.” He smiled at Guy. “Telephones are very corrupting things, aren’t they? What?” he continued, with his lips at the transmitter. “What’s that about manners? Oh, I never had any? Excuse me, but I’m nervous. Yes, nervous. Well, give me the number, won’t you? 9-0-7 Spring. Oh, I beg your pardon, I thought you were Central.” He turned from the transmitter. “I’ve offended her again. What? Yes. Well, excuse me, please. Well, I’ll try. Thank you. Thank heaven, she’s rung off! Women ought never to be allowed to get near telephones.” He rang again. “Is this Central? Oh, yes, thanks. 9-0-7 Spring, please. Now for a wait!” He leaned weakly against the wall.
Guy rose quickly. “Here, let me hold it for you awhile. You take a rest.”
“Thanks.” Farley sank into Guy’s chair. “I’ve spent most of the day at that ’phone,” he said, with a long sigh.
“Yes, waiting,” Guy was saying. “Eh? What a very fresh young person that is, Farley. Yes,” he exclaimed, snappishly, “9-0-7. Yes,” he repeated, loudly, “Spring. Who do you want, Farley?”
Farley stood up. “Give it to me.” As Guy returned to his seat, Farley cried: “Hello! Is Harlowe there? Yes, J. B. Harlowe, your political man. Well, ask him to come to the ’phone. Just listen to the hum of that office, will you?” he said, dreamily. “I can hear the old ticker going tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. The boys must be hustling to-night.”
Guy, who had taken his place at the desk again, rested his head on both hands. “You love newspaper work, don’t you, Farley?”
“I love it and I hate it. I wish I’d never gone into it, and I couldn’t be happy out of it. It’s got into my blood, I suppose. They say it always does if you stay in it long enough. I—Oh, hello, Harlowe! Well, how goes it? Any returns down there? We haven’t heard a word for an hour. Pretty quiet? Yes, this is just the time! What district? 235? Good! Funny we don’t hear. Oh, yes; just come in. We’ll get it by messenger, I suppose. We’re ahead by 235 in the Ninth District, Guy. What’s that?” Farley listened intently. “Well, I can tell you this—you’ll waste your time if you send a man up here. Congressman Briggs is asleep at this minute, and we don’t propose to wake him up. He’s nearly dead. He’s been rushing it without a break since the campaign opened. Seven speeches last night! Think of that! Eh? No, we don’t propose to deny the story. We’ve had a string of reporters here all day long, and we’ve steered them all off. They haven’t even seen Briggs.” He burst out laughing. Then he suddenly became serious. “All right. That’s the way to talk to ’em. Call me up if you get anything important.”
“What story?” Guy asked, when Farley had rung off.
“That nasty lie published in the Chronicle this morning,” Farley replied, dropping into a big chair near the desk.