The telephone bell rang sharply. Mr. Atkins came out of his reverie with a start, arose and walked across the room to the wall where the instrument hung. It was before the days of the convenient desk 'phone. He took the receiver from its hook and spoke into the transmitter.
“Hello!” he said. “Hello! Yes, yes! stop ringing. What is it?”
The wire buzzed and purred in the storm. “Hello!” said a voice. “Hello, there! Is this Mr. Atkins's house?”
“Yes; it is. What do you want?”
“Hey? Is this where the Honorable Heman Atkins lives?”
“Yes, yes, I tell you! This is Mr. Atkins speaking. What do you want?”
“Oh! is that you, Heman? This is Whittaker—Cy Whittaker. Understand?”
Mr. Atkins understood. Yet for an instant he did not reply. He had been thinking, as he sat by the fire, of certain persons and certain ugly, though remote, possibilities. Now, from a mysterious somewhere, one of those persons was speaking to him. The hand holding the receiver shook momentarily.
“Hello! I say, Heman, do you understand? This is Whittaker talkin'.”
“I—er—understand,” said the congressman, slowly. “Well, sir?”