To his ear came the low busy hum of a live wire. Somebody touched a bell
button, and the head janitor, running joyfully, two steps at a time, from
his lair, cried out that his bell had rung.

The little group of workmen and experts nodded in a competent and
satisfied manner, and began leisurely to pack their tools as though at the
successful completion of a long and difficult job.

But every man jack of them knew perfectly well that the electrical
apparatus of the building was now in exactly the same condition as it had
been the evening before. No repair work had followed a futile
investigation.

As the group moved toward the outer air, the head repair man quietly
dropped behind. Surreptitiously he applied the slender cords of his pocket
ammeter to the zinc and carbon of the dead batteries concerning whose
freshness he and his assistant had argued. The delicate needle leaped
forward, quivered like a snake's tongue, and hovered over a number.

"Fifteen," read the repair man; and then, after a moment: "Hell!"

The daily business, therefore, opened normally. The elevators shot from
floor to floor; the telephones rang; the call-bells buzzed, and all was
well. At six o'clock came the scrub-woman; at half past seven the office
boys; at eight the clerks; a little later some of the heads; and precisely
at nine Malachi McCarthy, as was his invariable habit.

As the bulky form of the political boss pushed around the leaves of the
revolving door, the elevator starter glanced at his watch. This was not to
determine if McCarthy was on time, but to see if the watch was right.