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Chester threw down his papers, pushed back his chair, and rose, tragic purpose on his face. "It is not to be borne," he ejaculated. "Oh, very well," stuttered Mr. Strangman, "that means, I suppose, that I shall have to do the 'phoning myself. Here, boy, get out, give me that." And thereupon the message started over again, but this time breathed in Mr. Strangman's powerful whisper.
One of Mr. Strangman's most agitated moods held him. It was a custom just founded by Strangman and it saved a certain amount of time, but Chester a thin, over-worked, intellectual-ridden gentleman, was driven nearly mad by occult messages, such as the following: "Hulloa, hulloa, is that telegrams? Take a message please for the Evening Herald. What, can't hear?
Strangman," she had pleaded; "she is clever and well-educated, but she needs experience. Take her, there is a good man, while your slack time is on, and she will be game for anything when you get busy again." Mr. Strangman twisted long nervous fingers into strange positions. "I don't know about this girl," he said; "we are never slack at the office."
Strangman cackled his customary nervous laugh. "Then that is settled," he said, "and here is the ticket. You will have to have a fancy dress, hire it, I suppose, since the time is so short. That, and a taxi there and back, will come out of the paper. Hope it is a good show, for your sake."
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