The scratchy voice was trying to say something, but she couldn't hear; evidently, though, they could hear her so she went right on: "Our electricity is off. Can you hear me? Our electricity has been off for two hours. They fixed the phone lines, why can't you people fix the power lines?" More scratchy sounds. Mrs. Goudeket listened to them--first casually, out of politeness, then very, very hard. Then there was a click. Mrs. Goudeket looked thoughtfully at the switchboard for a moment. This is new, she thought. Her mind was cold and alert; she knew she could not afford rage. The electric company here is not a good company, not like the wonderful Consolidated Edison in New York City. Here they overcharge you--by mistake, they say--and here the meter readers are underpaid and insolent, even with good customers like me. Their repair men are unshaven and lazy and when they finally get to you they stretch out a job forever so they don't have to hurry on to the next. But this is new, this hanging up. I'm no fool, not after thirty years in the resort business; I know their phone girls are under orders to kid the customers along, promise anything, _not to hang up_. Something must be happening, something bad. She walked slowly into the lobby, with a mechanical smile for each sullenly accusing guest. At the cigar stand she told little Mr. Semmel: "A pack of cigarettes. Any kind." He raised his eyebrows and passed one over. As she clumsily tore open the pack, extracted one and lit it he began to grumble: "Some hotel. Some light-and-power company. By now I should be getting the overnight lines for Monmouth, Hialeah and Sportsman's, by now I should have booked two hundred dollars on tomorrow. Believe me, Mrs. Goudeket, this is my last year at Green Acres. This kind of thing doesn't happen up at New Hampshire Notch; I don't pay good money for the concession so this kind of thing happens." A fattish, red-faced man bulged up to the counter, breathing whiskey at them. That's a Young Married, Mrs. Goudeket thought with distaste; that's what I have to take at this place because I can't get enough nice young people. "Sammy," the red-faced man complained hoarsely, "isn't the damn ticker working yet? I've got fifty bucks I have to play. You're busting my system to hell." Mr. Semmel said politely: "I'll see, Mr. Babin." He opened the plywood door behind the stand, looked into the little room where the teletype horse ticker stood, and closed the door again. "I'm sorry, Mr. Babin," he said, with a look at Mrs. Goudeket. "I think the wire's okay, but you got to have power to run the machine and there isn't any power. If it comes on later maybe I can phone Chicago for a repeat--if there's time before midnight." "Nuts," Babin said, and headed through the candlelit gloom for the bar. "You see?" Mr. Semmel hissed, in a hate-filled whisper. "You see what you're costing me? Never again, Mrs. Goudeket!"