he would have to go through the whole performance.

The telephone rang. And while Jack was sulkily getting to his feet, he
heard a girl's voice answering the phone. The nerve of her! What
business had she inside, anyway? Must a fellow padlock that door every
time he went out, to keep folks from going where they had no business
to be? He went angrily to the station; much more angrily than was
reasonable, considering the offense committed against him.

He saw a girl in a short khaki skirt and high laced boots and a pongee
blouse belted trimly with leather, bending her head over the
mouthpiece of the telephone. She had on a beach hat that carried the
full flavor of Venice in texture and tilt, and her hair was a ripe
corn color, slicked back from her temples in the fashion of the month.
Graceful and young she was, groomed as though thousands were to look
upon her. Normally Jack's eyes would have brightened at this sight,
his lips would have curved enticingly, his voice would have taken the
tone of incipient philandering. But in his present mood he snapped at
her.

"I beg your pardon. This is not a public telephone booth. It's a
private office."

She glanced inattentively his way, her smile directed mentally toward
the person on the other end of the wire. With her free hand she waved
him to silence and spoke, still smiling, into the mouthpiece.

"You're sure I won't do? I believe I could qualify, and I want--"

"If you please, this is not a public--"