“How did what work?”
“The fake. It was a fake telegram. That girl’s trained to bring in a message every time I have a caller. If the caller stays thirty minutes, it’s two messages,—in other words I’m on a fifteen-minute schedule. I tip a boy in the telegraph office to keep me supplied with blanks. It’s a great scheme. There’s nothing like a telegram to create the impression that your office is a seething caldron of business. Old Prexy was in town the other day. I don’t suppose he ever got a dose of electricity in his life unless he had been sorely bereft of a member of his family and was summoned to the funeral baked meats. Say, he must have thought I had a private wire!”
Leighton sat down and fanned himself with his hat.
“You’ll be my death yet. You have the cheek of a nice, fresh, new baggage check, Balcomb.”
“Your cigar isn’t burning well, Morris. Won’t you try another? No? I like my guests to be comfortable.”
“I’m comfortable enough. I’m even entertained. Go ahead and let me see the rest of the show.”
“Oh, we haven’t exactly a course of stunts here. Those are nice girls out there. I’ve broken them of the chewing gum habit, and they can answer anxious inquiries at the door now without danger of strangulation.”
“They seem speedy on the machine. Your correspondence must be something vast!”
“Um, yes. It has to be. Every cheap skate of a real estate man keeps one stenographer. My distinction is that I keep two. They’re easy advertising. Now that little one in the pink shirt-waist that brought in the message from Mars a moment ago is a wonder of intelligence. Do you know what she’s doing now?”
“Trying to break the machine I should guess, from the racket.”