And presently the voice of Western Union was lifted in sour
expostulation:
"Sa-ay, whatcha s'pose 's th' matta wid dis guy? I' been ringin'
haffanour!"
"That's funny," commented the elevator boy: "he came in only about ten
minutes ago."
"Yuh wuddn' think he cud pass away 's quick 's all that--wuddja?"
"Ah, I dunno. Mebbe he had a bun on when he come in. Gen'ly has. I
didn' notice."
"Well, th' way he must be poundin' his ear now--notta hear dis
racket--yud think he was trainin' for a Rip van Winkle Marathon."
Pause--made audible by the pertinacious bell, grinding away like a
dentist's drill in a vacant tooth....
"Waitin' here all day won't get me nothin'. Here, what's th' matta wid
you signin' for't?"
"G'wan. Sign it yourself 'nd stick unda the door, whydoncha?"
Second pause--the bell boring on, but more faintheartedly, as if
doubting whether it ever would reach that nerve.
Finally Western Union gave it up.
"A'right. Guess I will."
Clang of the gate: whine of the descending car: silence....
Softly P. Sybarite tiptoed down the stairs.
Disappointment, however, lay in ambush for him at his nefarious goal:
evidently Western Union had been punctilious about his duty; not even
so much as the tip of a corner of yellow envelope peeped from under
the door.
Reckless in exasperation, P. Sybarite first wasted time educing a
series of short, sharp barks from the bell--a peculiarly irritating
noise, calculated (one would think) to rouse the dead--then tried the
door and, finding it fast, in the end knelt and bent an ear to the
keyhole, listening.
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