"Aw, go ahead and buzz!" he said between his teeth.
As he stepped into the hot downpour, the door-bell rang.
"Whoever that is can wait."
But apparently the person in question had no desire to do so, for the bell sounded again and again. To complete the symphony, the telephone chimed in with its merry tune.
"Gwendolyn!" called Mr. Brush, distractedly amid the roar of waters.
But she, having fallen into a pleasant doze while waiting for her breakfast, did not hear him. The bells and buzzer had by this time settled into a sustained chord like that of the whistles at New-year's.
Bounding out of the tub to the mat, Mr. Brush wrapped his form, which still glistened with pearly drops, in his bath-robe, and slip slopped frigidly down the hall.
"Hello!" he cried, snatching off the telephone-receiver. "No, this is not Schmittberger the butcher!" Then he darted to the front door. Opening it, he found the postman waiting with a letter.
"Two cents due, please."