Will-i-am-son!"
"You're the son of what? I can't hear what you say."
Then you gather yourself for one final effort, and succeed, by
superhuman patience, in getting the fool to understand that you wish
to know if Mr. Williamson is in, and he says, so it sounds to you,
"Be in all the morning."
So you snatch up your hat and run round.
"Oh, I've come to see Mr. Williamson," you say.
"Very sorry, sir," is the polite reply, "but he's out."
"Out? Why, you just now told me through the telephone that he'd be
in all the morning."
"No, I said, he 'WON'T be in all the morning.'"
You go back to the office, and sit down in front of that telephone
and look at it. There it hangs, calm and imperturbable. Were it an
ordinary instrument, that would be its last hour. You would go
straight down-stairs, get the coal-hammer and the kitchen-poker, and
divide it into sufficient pieces to give a bit to every man in
London. But you feel nervous of these electrical affairs, and there
is a something about that telephone, with its black hole and curly
wires, that cows you. You have a notion that if you don't handle it
properly something may come and shock you, and then there will be an
inquest, and bother of that sort, so you only curse it.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125