"Can't the idiot see I'm out?"
she complained whimsically. "What's that card for, I wonder?"
She threw the switch, rattled a reply, and then, as the sounder
settled down to a steady click-clickety-click-click, she drew a
pad toward her, pulled up the chair with her foot, sat down, and
began to write the message as it came chattering over the wire.
When it was finished and the sounder quiet, her hand awoke to
life upon the key. She seemed to be repeating the message, word
for word. When she was done, she listened, got her answer, threw
off the switch with a sweep of her thumb, and fumbled among the
papers on the table until she found an envelope. She addressed
it with a hasty scrawl of her pencil, sealed it with a vicious
little spat of her hand, and then sat looking down upon it
thoughtfully.
"I suppose I've got to deliver that immediately, at once, without
delay," she said. "There's supposed to be an answer. Chicken,
some queer things happen in this business.
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