At five minutes past eleven the telephone-bell rings.
That is what I am good at. I leap to my feet and say "Hullo!"
Utter silence follows, save (as Mr. BEACH THOMAS would say) for the monotonous drone of the great shells bursting outside.
I repeat my original remark. "Hullo!" I say brightly, "Hullo!... Hullo!"
I shake the microphone. It sounds as though sand had got into it, and still there is silence. The minutes creep on and my voice begins to fail. Outside in the quiet night a solitary gas-alarm chirps a few quiet notes to the stars and is still. I continue to say "Hullo!"
At eleven-fifteen the operator at the other end finishes the story of what he said to her and what she, on the other hand, said to him, and turns refreshed to his instrument.
With a dexterous twist of his wrist he sounds a deafening peal in the bell at my ear, and says, "Hullo!"
I retaliate. When the score is vantage out, I put all the red tabs I can into my voice, and his tone changes. He is at once the cheerful and willing artisan, eager to please.
"Yes, Sir ... Yes, Sir ... Who do you want, Sir? This is Zed Esses Pip Ack five, Sir ..."
"You called me," I say.