“Of course it will. I’m sure that what we’ll save on strings and car-fare will pay the rent of the instrument,” joyously responded Mrs. Jones, who had no great head for figures.
Thus hope and kindly intentions presided at the inauguration of the Joneses’ telephone.
Three months passed, and the great invention had carried much information—useful and otherwise—not only to its owners, but to the entire neighborhood as well. There were even days when the Joneses questioned whether they were not running a public telephone, so often did the bell ring. It is true, it had not quite paid for itself in the anticipated saving of car-fares and finger strings; still, it had certainly been a great comfort, and “Well, we’ll just face the music and call it a luxury,” said Jones, as he put away the receipt for his first quarter’s rent; “especially for our friends,” he added, with just a touch of bitterness.
Scarce twenty-four hours after this philosophical stand was taken, Mrs. Jones, who was rather a light sleeper, was aroused by a violent and prolonged ringing. It was six o’clock and Sunday morning—a day and hour usually dedicated to undisturbed slumber. After a brief debate in her own mind as to whether the house was on fire or the milkman was ringing, she realized that it was the telephone bell. She hastily donned slippers and gown and ran down-stairs. In reply to her interrogative “Yes?” (Mrs. Jones could never bring herself to say “Hello!”) came the following, in measured and clerical tones:
“It is Mr. Brown—Reverend Mr. Brown, speaking.”
“Oh, yes?” instinctively covering her half-clad feet in the folds of her gown.
“I believe you live near the Reverend Mr. Smith, and are a member of his church.”
“Yes.”
“Will you be good enough to send to him, and ask if he can spare his curate to take Mr. Brown’s early service for him, as he is called away. I would be glad if you would send immediately, as I must have his answer within fifteen minutes. Thank you. Please call up 1001,” and snap went the telephone.