"T for Tommy, I keep telling you—Tommy, Tommy," the lad at the 'phone shrieked triumphantly.
Mr. Chester threw down his papers, pushed back his chair, and rose, tragic purpose on his face.
"It is not to be borne," he ejaculated.
"Oh, very well," stuttered Mr. Strangman, "that means, I suppose, that I shall have to do the 'phoning myself. Here, boy, get out, give me that."
And thereupon the message started over again, but this time breathed in Mr. Strangman's powerful whisper.
He certainly seemed to be able to manipulate it with less noise, only he soon wearied of the effort, and future wires were deputed to Joan. So, in addition to her other tasks, she had had the peculiarly irritating one of trying to induce attention into post office telephone girls.
Then, too, Mr. Strangman had not felt in the mood to dictate letters, with the result that at a quarter to six seven of them had to be altered and retyped. Joan was still sitting at her machine in a corner of the hot, noisy office, beating out: "Dear Sir, In answer to yours, etc.," when the clock struck six. Her back ached, her eyes throbbed, she was conscious of a feeling of intense hatred against mild, inoffensive Mr. Strangman.
That gentleman, having discovered the lateness of the hour by chance, kept her another quarter of an hour apologizing before he signed the letters.
Then he looked up at her suddenly.
"Do you think," he said, "that you could report on the dresses for us to-morrow night at the Artists' Ball?"