The telephone seems peculiarly
adapted for the conveyance of blasphemy. Ordinary language sounds
indistinct through it; but every word those two men are saying can
be heard by all the telephone subscribers in London.
It is useless attempting to listen till they have done. When they
are exhausted, you apply to the tube again. No answer is
obtainable. You get mad, and become sarcastic; only being sarcastic
when you are not sure that anybody is at the other end to hear you
is unsatisfying.
At last, after a quarter of an hour or so of saying, "Are you
there?" "Yes, I'm here," "Well?" the young lady at the Exchange
asks what you want.
"I don't want anything," you reply.
"Then why do you keep talking?" she retorts; "you mustn't play with
the thing."
This renders you speechless with indignation for a while, upon
recovering from which you explain that somebody rang you up.
"WHO rang you up?" she asks.
"I don't know."
"I wish you did," she observes.
Generally disgusted, you slam the trumpet up and return to your
chair. The instant you are seated the bell clangs again; and you
fly up and demand to know what the thunder they want, and who the
thunder they are.
"Don't speak so loud, we can't hear you.
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