Mrs. Goodson stood thinking. “Who could have been meant? Oh, I’ve just thought! It must be that Mrs. Goodson who sews for Mrs. Jones and me. And she has a daughter—a typewriter down town—and she has friends living in the suburbs. She has doubtless gone there to dinner and concluded to stay all night. But she lives just around the corner from you.”
Goodson laughed loudly and brutally. “A bonny sort of a night for a respectable family man like you, Jones, to be skylarking around carrying messages for typewriting maidens!”
“Oh, come now, that’s a little too much!”
“Well, old man, I’ll show my gratitude for your friendly intentions toward me by going round to the telephone people the first thing in the morning, and complaining of you. You’ve no right to be running opposition to the public telephones in this way.”
“If you only would!” and Jones wrung his friend’s hand while tears of thankfulness welled up to his eyes.
Once in the street, he longed for a contemptuous enemy to kick him briskly to the door of the Widow Goodson. The latter was evidently about to retire, as it was a long time before she responded to his ring. When, finally, she did come, she heard him calmly through and then answered languidly: “Yes, I didn’t much expect Bella home to-night, for she said if it come on to rain she thought she’d stay with her cousins. Good night. Quite drizzly, isn’t it?” peering out into the darkness.
Full of bitterness, Jones turned homeward. It seemed to him that his cup was full; and so it was, for it refused to hold more. As he entered his home, chilled without but hot within, he was greeted by an unfamiliar voice coming from the regions of the telephone.
“Give me Blair’s,” it said. “Is that Blair’s? Is that—Blair’s—B-l-a-i-r-’s, do you understand? Oh, yes, it is you, is it, Mrs. Blair? Well, say I want to speak to Miss McCrea—Oh—pshaw! you must know her—she’s the young lady that works for you. Oh, she’s out, is she? Well, when she comes in, tell her Miss Doolan told you to say that 398 Mr. Brennan has broke his leg—she’ll know, he drives Judson’s horses—and me and Mrs. Judson want to know whether he’s to go to the hospital or to his friends. You can send your answer to No. 999. They’ll let me know. Give Miss McCrea my love and tell her not to worry about Mr. Brennan. Good-by.”
