"Air was full of dope most of last night from some merry little jester
working a toy, home-made. He just kept repeating the same thing--something
about 'McCarthy, at six o'clock you shall have a sign given unto you. It
works,' over and over all night. Some new advertising dodge, I reckon.
Didn't know but you were the McCarthy and were getting a present from some
admiring constituent."
He threw back his head and laughed, but McCarthy's ready anger rose.
"Where did the stuff come from?"
"Out of the fresh air," replied the operator. "From most anywhere inside
the zone of communication."
"Couldn't you tell who sent it?"
"No way. It wasn't signed. Come from quite a distance, though."
"How can you tell that?"
"You can tell by the way it sounds. Say, they ought to be a law about
these amatoors cluttering up the air this way. Sometimes I got to pick my
own dope out of a dozen or fifteen messages all ticking away in my
headpiece at once."
"I know the crazy slob what sent 'em, all right, all right," growled
McCarthy. "He's nutty for fair."
"Well, if he's nutty, I wish you'd hurry his little trip to Matteawan,"
complained the operator, turning away.
The boss went to his office, where he established himself behind his
table-top desk. There all day he conducted a leisurely business of
mysterious import, sitting where the cool autumn breeze from the river
brought its refreshment.
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