Yes, this is Creighton, Sears & Co. … Barney Creighton speaking. … Yes … Oh, hello, Littlefield … Can't pay that note?… What! you want time? How would six months on Blackwell's Island strike you? … No, I won't give you another day. Note's two weeks overdue now … have the wrong number, this is not the Bureau of Charities … Words, my dear boy, will never pay that note … Good-bye."
He had hardly hung up the receiver, when the telephone buzzed again.
"This is Mrs. Clarkson speaking," came a thin, cattish voice, as he put his ear to the receiver. "I am on the board of directors of the Society for Improving the Conditions of the Poor …"
"Yes," interjected Barney peevishly.
"I know a woman who has eight children," continued the voice.
"I know one that has ten," he snapped. "You needn't have telephoned that information. You could have dropped me a card …"
As he banged up the receiver with an ejaculation of poorly suppressed anger, he gazed into the blank face of one of the office boys.
"Mr. Sears just told me he didn't need me any more," began the youth. "What do you think of that?"
"I think you're fired," said Barney curtly. "Get out!"
Miss Raymond appeared in the doorway. "Duncan & Co. are on the wire," said she.
