* * * * * "Hullo!" I said, when my bell rang the next time. "Put me through to Extension 8, please." The only thing to do with this sort of shot is to return it safely. "Sorry, old chap," I said, "I haven't got one." "Haven't _what_?" he said. "Got one." "One what?" "Extension." Then he became annoyed and shouted, "Aren't you the War Office?" "No," I answered, "I am not the War Office." "Aren't you the War Off--" But I clapped on my receiver. In fact I clapped it on so violently that I thought I had silenced the thing for good and all. A series of tugging ineffective clicks on the part of my bell decided me to investigate. This move on my part was to win me the game. I took off my receiver and listened. No answer. I banged the rigging. No answer. I banged and thumped. "Yes, yes," she said rather peevishly, "I am attending to you as quickly as I can. What number do you want?" "Well," I explained, "as a matter of fact I don't want a number. I only wondered if my line was all right. Sorry you have been terroubled," and I cut her off. One--all. * * * * * The third and last game started briskly. In the course of the first ten minutes I was rung up and asked if I was-- 1. The Timber Control. 2. Mr. Awl or All. 3. The Timber Control (again). 4. The London Diocesan Church Schools. (At this point I rather lost my head and answered, "D---- the London Diocesan Church Schools.") My impiety offended the Bishop (I assume it was a Bishop), and he, rather unfairly, must have incited the gods to take sides against me. In a lucid interval, while I was doing a call of my own, the operator, without giving me any warning, switched me on to the supervisor. This must have been an inspiration from Olympus. However I was equal to the emergency; nay, took advantage of it. Experience has taught me that it is always best to talk to the person you get, whether you want that person or not. So I explained to the supervisor that I was a busy man, although the rumour which ascribed to my shoulders the War Office, the Timber Control and the L.D.C.S. was, at the moment, unfounded. She played up magnificently; took my number, my name, my address, the date, the time of the day, how many times I had been rung up, whom by and when, and was going to ask me the date of my birth and whether I was married or single, when I protested. Then she calmed down and said she would have my line seen to. The game seemed to be going well; but again I was beaten by a swift stroke. My bell rang. "Telephone Engineering Department speaking," it said. "We have received a report that your line is out of order. We are sending a man and hope he will finish the job before luncheon." This was the end, as anyone knows who has ever got into the clutches: of the Telephone Engineering Department.