“For anything, son! And Cub ... please ... you know MacArthur and Herb admire each other. If you don’t mind...?”
The clanging bell vibrated down Cub’s free ear. He snapped:
“Between ourselves, Doctor. Suppose we leave it that way? Hear an ambulance now! Report to you later, sir. Not at all! ’By!”
Otto Weber flicked his towel and shouted when Dr. Ethridge Sterling, Junior, flung open the door of the telephone booth:
“Stoop, Cub! Stoop!”
As the tall, angular body shot across Beeker Street, Otto plodded into the booth, picked up three nickels, stomped out the cigarette and replaced the receiver upon the hook.
Across Beeker Street two firemen were lifting the padded stretcher from a municipal ambulance. One of them ceased pulling for a second and changed his tobacco wad to the other side.
A big man bent over him and snapped:
“Did you get this accident out the Lincoln Highway?”
“Yeah ... looks like them dolls in the wax-works down to Holiday Park.”