d Mr. Chester, during a pause in one of these
wordy tussles, "I, or that telephone, will have to go, Strangman. I
cannot work with it going on."

"My dear fellow"--Strangman was all agitation at once--"what is to be
done? The messages must go and I must hear them sent or the boys would
put in wrong words. I am sure it is not any pleasanter for me than it is
for you; I have also got to work."

"T for Tommy, I keep telling you--Tommy, Tommy," the lad at the 'phone
shrieked triumphantly.

Mr. Chester threw down his papers, pushed back his chair, and rose,
tragic purpose on his face.

"It is not to be borne," he ejaculated.

"Oh, very well," stuttered Mr. Strangman, "that means, I suppose, that I
shall have to do the 'phoning myself. Here, boy, get out, give me that."

And thereupon the message started over again, but this time breathed in
Mr. Strangman's powerful whisper.

He certainly seemed to be able to manipulate it with less noise, only he
soon wearied of the effort, and future wires were deputed to Joan. So,
in addition to her other tasks, she had had the peculiarly irritating
one of trying to induce attention into post office telephone girls.

Then, too, Mr. Strangman had not felt in the mood to dictate letters,
with the result that at a quarter to six seven of them had to be altered
and retyped. Joan was still sitting at her machine in a corner of the
hot, noisy office, beating out: "Dear Sir, In answer to yours, etc.,"
when the clock struck six. Her back ached, her eyes throbbed, she was
conscious of a feeling of intense hatred against mild, inoffensive Mr.
Strangman.

That gentleman, having discovered the lateness of the hour by chance,
kept her another quarter of an hour apologizing before he signed the
letters.

Then he looked up at her suddenly.

"Do you think," he said, "that you could report on the dresses for us
to-morrow night at the Artists' Ball?"

"I report?" Joan looked at him in astonishment; women reporters were
disapproved of on the _Evening Herald_.

"I know it is unusual," Mr. Strangman admitted. "But Jones is ill, and
our other men will all be busy on important turns. I just thought of
you in passing; it is a pity to waste the ticket."

"I could try." Joan made an effort to keep the eagerness out of her
voice.

"Yes, that is it, you could try. We should not want much," he added;
"and it is not part of your duties as a secretary; still, you might
enjoy it, eh?"

"Why, I shoul