“It’s Harry, the clerk in Robertson’s store,” answered Blake, for a short distance away was the general store—“The Universal Emporium,” as the sign had it—of Hank Robertson, of Central Falls.
“Come on, boys!” went on the voice of the caller, who was out of sight because of a roadside hedge. “You’re wanted on the long-distance telephone!”
“Ugh!” groaned Blake. “Might have known it. Did you start this, Joe?” and he looked at his chum suspiciously.
“Don’t know a thing about it. Who can want us on the ’phone?”
“Best way’s to go and find out. Mighty queer, though, that just as we read of the Mississippi flood, and decide to go, someone should ring us up on long distance. I thought we got rid of all that when we came here for our vacation. Things have started with a rush.”
“Say, are you comin’?” demanded the store clerk. “Central has been ringin’ like all possessed! Must be important!”
“I guess it is, or they wouldn’t telephone,” murmured Blake.
“We’re coming!” cried Joe.
Together the boys hurried out into the road, and turned down toward the store.
There were not many telephones in the country village of Central Falls. They were considered too much of a luxury. But Hank Robertson was rather progressive, and had had a long distance instrument installed in his store some time before.