II
That night Soroku Tamano, another linesman, was on duty. He was sleeping in the linesmen’s quarters in the post office.
He became aware of some disturbing sound. But he was tired out after his day’s work.
“Let me sleep a bit longer. Have a heart. Don’t disturb my slumbers sweet …”
He lay there drowsy. He was terribly sleepy, he thought to himself, and he would keep on sleeping no matter who tried to wake him.
But it was no use thinking like that; if he didn’t get up he’d be fired. He rubbed his eyes. It was the telephone ringing. “Blast it,” he mumbled, and hopped out of bed.
“Hello, hello,” an irritated voice snapped back. “This is Tokyo Central. The No. 4 line, the No. 6 line and the No. 7 are all down. The No. 5 is uncertain. All wires on No. 2 are blocked. Get a move on. D’ye understand?”
“I understand; I’ll call an emergency rally.” He hung up the receiver with a bang and hitched up his dirty sagging breeches.
“Twenty to three.” With a yawn he glanced up at the clock on the wall. “It’s the middle of the bloody night.”
The sooty window rattled in the gale. Snow pattered against the glass.
“A snowstorm. What do we want a blasted snowstorm for? It’s no wonder all the lines are out of order,” he grumbled as he put on his muddy rubber boots. “And so late, too, blast them.”
