You can’t argue any more, after that. The machine would give way under the language you want to make use of. Half of what you feel would probably cause an explosion at some point where the wire was weak. Indeed, mere language of any kind would fall short of the requirements of the case. A hatchet and a gun are the only intermediaries through which you could convey your meaning by this time. So you give up all attempt to answer back, and meekly mention that you want to be put in communication with four-five-seven-six. “Four-nine-seven-six?” says the girl. “No; four-five-seven-six.” “Did you say seven-six or six-seven?” “Six-seven—no! I mean seven-six: no—wait a minute. I don’t know what I do mean now.” “Well, I wish you’d find out,” says the young lady severely. “You are keeping me here all the morning.” So you look up the number in the book again, and at last she tells you that you are in connection; and then, ramming the trumpet tight against your ear, you stand waiting. And if there is one thing more than another likely to make a man feel ridiculous it is standing on tip-toe in a corner, holding a machine to his head, and listening intently to nothing. Your back aches and your head aches, your very hair aches. You hear the door open behind you and somebody enter the room. You can’t turn your head. You swear at them, and hear the door close with a bang. It immediately occurs to you that in all probability it was Henrietta. She promised to call for you at half-past twelve: you were to take her to lunch. It was twelve o’clock when you were fool enough to mix yourself up with this infernal machine, and it probably is half-past twelve by now. Your past life rises before you, accompanied by dim memories of your grandmother. You are wondering how much longer you can bear the strain of this attitude, and whether after all you do really want to see the man in the next street but two, when the girl in the exchange-room calls up to know if you’re done. “Done!” you retort bitterly; “why, I haven’t begun yet.” “Well, be quick,” she says, “because you’re wasting time.” Thus admonished, you attack the thing again. “_Are_ you there?” you cry in tones that ought to move the heart of a Charity Commissioner; and then, oh joy! oh rapture! you hear a faint human voice replying— “Yes, what is it?” “Oh! Are you four-five-seven-six?” “What?” “Are you four-five-seven-six, Williamson?” “What! who are you?” “Eight-one-nine, Jones.” “Bones?” “No, _J_ones. Are you four-five-seven-six?” “Yes; what is it?” “Is Mr. Williamson in?” “Will I what—who are you?” “Jones! Is Mr. Williamson in?” “Who?” “Williamson. 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.”