The buzzer continued its heavy droning, and the telephone started up again.
"Two cents, two cents," repeated Mr. Brush in befuddlement.
The postman stared.
"Two cents; yes, two cents," reiterated Mr. Brush, groping immodestly for pockets where there were none.
"You said that before."
"Oh, excuse me! I'll get it right off. Now, where did I put that purse? Let me think." But thinking in the neighborhood of that telephone was an impossibility. He would have to quiet the thing. So, clapping the receiver to his ear, he protested, "Hello! hello!"
"Will you kindly give me Schmittberger's butcher shop?"
"Good grief!" he exclaimed, letting the receiver fall. It swung by its tail, pendulum-wise, barking infuriated clicks.
Mr. Brush staggered to the bedroom. With reeling brain, he ransacked all his chiffonier drawers for the purse which was lying in plain view on top. By the time he had discovered it and started back to the door, the buzzer in the kitchen was having delirium tremens. Floundering to the spot, he gasped:
"What do you want?"