\"Oh，I’vecometoseeMr。Williamson，\"yousay。
\"Verysorry，sir，\"isthepolitereply，\"buthe’sout。\"
\"Out？Why，youjustnowtoldmethroughthetelephonethathe’dbeinallthemorning。\"
\"No，Isaid，he’WON’Tbeinallthemorning。’\"
Yougobacktotheoffice，andsitdowninfrontofthattelephoneandlookatit。Thereithangs，calmandimperturbable。Wereitanordinaryinstrument，thatwouldbeitslasthour。Youwouldgostraightdown-stairs，getthecoal-hammerandthekitchen-poker，anddivideitintosufficientpiecestogiveabittoeverymaninLondon。Butyoufeelnervousoftheseelectricalaffairs，andthereisasomethingaboutthattelephone，withitsblackholeandcurlywires，thatcowsyou。Youhaveanotionthatifyoudon’thandleitproperlysomethingmaycomeandshockyou，andthentherewillbeaninquest，andbotherofthatsort，soyouonlycurseit。