“Wrong?” Colonel Hull flung himself into his desk chair. “Wrong? Is anything right?”
His wife’s only answer was a patient smile. Thirty years of married life had accustomed her to his explosive tendencies. She wisely changed the subject.
“Did Lucille get you on the telephone?” she inquired.
Colonel Hull brought his revolving chair back to its upright position with a jerk.
“No. Why didn’t you tell me at once that she called up?” He reached for the instrument resting on his desk. “Just like a woman. Central,” switching the hook up and down, “Central, Cleveland 64. What’s that? Special operator—I don’t need her—the number is correct. What? Service discontinued. Well, I’ll be—” He banged up the receiver and turned, red-faced, to his wife. “They have cut off their telephone at Ten Acres.”
“I am not surprised,” replied Mrs. Hull. “They were probably pestered with calls.”
“But how am I going to reach Lucille?” he demanded.
“Why not motor out there after dinner?”
Colonel Hull’s good looks were marred by a scowl. “I had to leave the car at the shop—burned out a bearing,” he admitted.
“Julian—your new car!”