ay as though he had been
caught up with. And he could not understand.

Directly the exchange called his name and he responded quite sharply
and briskly. Then her "Just a minute," and he was feeling suddenly
taut and tense. And then the voice was switched on again.

Like a dream it came. He could barely make out the syllables. The
voice was broken--seemed very far-away--very weak. It was telling him
that his uncle--his uncle, Mr. Mosby--"Brrr! Brrr!"--and had not been
seen since. There was a moment's pause.

And then--would he come?

Another pause and he had vague notions that that was all. And yet he
had not heard. Yes, he would come.

There was a click and then silence, and there he was, sitting just as
though he had dreamed it all. Then a voice called, "Did you get
them?" And he mechanically put up the receiver without a word.
Something had happened--just what, he could only guess--make out
piecemeal. There was trouble--he could feel that. Uncle Buzz had
somehow stepped beyond the pale. He had heard the words "all night"
and "no trace of him." This was no ordinary trouble. This was not a
matter of trial balance.

He opened the door and stepped out into the office. It was a changed
place. Over there was his long flat-topped desk with the opened ledger
upon it. A sheet of paper had blown to the floor and was sliding over
toward him, its edges curling lazily. These seemed live, vibrant
features. One of the clerks across the way had thought of something
humorous and was leaning forward to tell his vis-a-vis. It had been so
vital that he had laid his pen down to tell it. He was talking with
half-shut lips, with eyes that shifted back and forth alert for a
glance of disfavour. His rusty black derby sat on the back of his
head: his white pique tie had slipped away from a bright brass collar
button....

Through the open door he could see Mr. Boner hunched up over his desk
and as he watched, that gentleman suddenly plunged his head in a
ducking motion toward the cuspidor on the floor and just as quickly
bent down again over the desk. Like fire-flashes of consciousness all
these things were. These were things going on outside of him. There
was a world moving on outside of him, a world that took little count
of the creatures in its path. All this--all this about him--was like a
bit of stale, flat, slightly greenish backwater--the big wheels
churning away just beyond and paying it no attention, letting it grow
staler an