The response was a long and continuous buzzing, through which a jabbering female tongue screeched that it was Y. Dubaday talking. It sounded like "Y. Dubaday," but Jerry knew no one of that name, and so emphatically stated, adding to the fact that he didn't know anyone of that name and didn't want to, and if this was their idea of a joke——"
He hung up at this juncture, seized his head, groaned, walked up and down swearing softly and almost weeping with nervousness and distraction. Finally with a sigh of hopelessness as he realised the impossibility of concentrating on that night, Jerry gathered up his tools and pads, packed them into a portfolio, which he craftily hid under a mass of papers—Jerry knew where he could put his hands on any desired one—got his pipe, pulled up before the waning fire, gave it a shove, put on a fresh log, lit his pipe, stretched out his long legs, put his brown head back against the chair, and sought what comfort there might be left to an exasperated young aspirant for fame who had been interrupted a dozen times inside of an hour or so. Hardly had he settled down into this comparative comfort when that telephone rang again. Jerry was angry now—"hopping mad." He lifted that receiver with ominous gentleness, and his voice was silken.
"What can I do for you, fair one?"
Curiously enough the buzzing had completely stopped and the fair one's reply came vibrating clearly into his listening ear.
"Mr. Hammond?"
"Well, what of it?"
"Mr. Hammond, manager of some corporation or company in Japan?"
"What are you talking about?"
"If you'll hold the wire long enough to take a message from a friend I'll deliver it."
"Friend, eh? Who is he? I'd like to get a look at him this moment. Take your time."