When the phone rang, Ruth pushed open the swinging door. “Get it, Jim, will you? We’re making gravy.”
Jim went into the front hall and soon returned. He looked unhappy. “For you, Hank. Man who sounds upset.”
Henry Conner lumbered into the hall and said cheerfully, half playfully, “Merry Christmas. This is Henry.”
A very shaky voice came to his ears. “Henry Conner?”
“That’s right. Who is it? What’s the—”
“Been trying to reach you for half an hour! This is headquarters. Brock speaking.
Condition Yellow.”
Henry felt as if he’d been hit with a forty-five slug. His knees wobbled and he sat down hard on the hall chair. Then he realized it must be either a gag or some crazy test. If it was a test, it was a terrible time for one. Next, he realized that this sort of situation had been envisaged, and a code designed to cover it, so that only those who knew the code could check back on the announcement. For a moment, the proper words were swept out of his mind. He cudgeled his brain and said, in a voice that was nothing like his own, “How many sacks of potatoes?”
“Maine potatoes,” the voice replied. “And Idahos. I’ve got to break off.”
That was the question. That was the answer. It wasn’t a grim practical joke. It wasn’t a test.