When we got that settled and the pundits began to drift away to other plate-glass rooms along the mile, more or less, of corridor devoted to officials' offices, I became interested in a little wooden box which stood upon the president's large flat-top desk. I was told it was a dictagraph. Never having seen a dictagraph before, and being something of a child, I wished to play with it as I used to play with typewriters and letter-presses in my father's office years ago. And the president of this many-million-dollar corporation, being a kindly man with, of course, absolutely nothing to do but to supply itinerant scribes with playthings, let me toy with the machine. Sitting at the desk, he pressed a key. Then, without changing his position, he spoke into the air:
"Fred," he said, "there's some one here who wants to ask you a question."
Then the little wooden box began to talk.
"What does he want to ask about?" it said.
That put it up to me. I had to think of something to ask. I was conscious of a strange, unpleasant feeling of being hurried—of having to reply quickly before something happened—some breaking of connections.
I leaned toward the machine, but the president waved me back: "Just sit over there where you are."
Then I said: "I am writing articles about Buffalo, Cleveland, and Detroit. How would you compare them?"
"Well," replied the Fred-in-the-box, "I used to live in Cleveland. I've been here four years and I wouldn't want to go back."
After that we paused. I thought I ought to say something more to the box, but I didn't know just what.
"Is that all you want to know?" it asked.