“Yes, sir. Yes, Dr. Barton. Been trying to get you all evening, sir. Think she’s all right. Pull through. Can’t tell for a certainty yet. Mostly shock. What’s that? Aw, she’s average. Kinda tinselly. By the way, better say none of those paper people can see her for a week. No beaus and no flowers. Righto! Not at all! See you tomorrow, sir.”
Cub replaced the receiver, rose, straightened his tie, changed to a blue serge coat, tore three wedding invitations on his desk to shreds, slung the shreds into the waste basket, slammed the door and slouched up the stairs, whistling.
The jingling of a telephone bell followed him. That’s why he whistled.
Five minutes later, the woman in the Admitting Office wrote Thursday, May 12th for the fourth time, and Sophie Merriweather, Newark, N. J., for the tenth time, and Cub Sterling barged into Weber’s deserted restaurant and said, pathetically:
“Otto, fill me up.”
Otto said:
“Sit down, Cubbie!”
Then he lifted the hose of a talking tube and ordered:
“Three-minut-steak-two-vrench-vrys-asparaggus-on-toas-celler-y- an’- ollivs- VRIGH-TER-VAY!”
He slid the tube onto its hook, filled two steins with Schlitz, blew the foam, carefully refilled them, and with a “from the heart” motion, pushed them across the counter and soothed: