"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.
McCarthy had recovered his good humor. He threw a joke at the negro
polishing the brass, and paused genially to exchange a word with the
elevator starter.
"Worked until about three o'clock," the latter answered a question. "Got
it fixed all right. No, they didn't say what was the matter. Something to
do with the wires, I suppose."
"Most like," agreed McCarthy.
At this moment an elevator dropped from above and came to rest, like a
swift bird alighting. The doors parted to let out a young man wearing the
cap of the United Wireless.
"Good morning, Mr. McCarthy," this young man remarked in passing. "Aren't
going into the sign-painting business, are you?" He laughed.
"What ye givin' us, Mike?" demanded McCarthy.
The young man wheeled to include the elevator starter in the joke.
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