“No, sir.”
Babbing took down the receiver from its hook. “When did you quit?”
Barney hesitated guiltily a moment. Then he answered: “This morning.”
“Give me room eight-twenty,” Babbing said, into the ’phone. He added, to Barney: “You can’t work for me, if you’re going to smoke. It will spoil your nerve.” And while Barney, dumb with incredulous hope, was still staring at the implication of that warning, Babbing said: “Hello. This is eight-fourteen. Can you get in to see me for a few minutes? . . . Yes. . . . Have you received that uniform yet? . . . Bring it in with you.”
He hung up the receiver but kept his hand on it. “Sit down,” he said to Barney. He continued, to the telephone: “Get me one-seven-three-one Desbrosses. . . . Hello. . . . Archibald. Babbing. . . . You have an application there—in answer to our want ad—from a boy named Barney Cook. Have you
