One evening, a few weeks after the rise and fall of Thomas Brown I was gaily handing out wrong numbers, "don't answer" and "busy" signals, when a swell looking, snappy dressed young fellow of about twenty-five autumns bounds up to the board and asks for Whitehall 1483. When I get them, he says he would like to speak to Miss Fish.
"Be yourself, Harold!" I says, giving him a glance which would freeze two Eskimos, "Whitehall 1483 is the Aquarium. You want to speak to Miss Fish, eh? How do you get that way?"
Honestly, his kid face grew as red as a throwing tomato and his Alice-blue eyes took on the hurt look of a baby's when you refuse it a lollypop.
"Why—why—I beg your pardon," he stammered. "I didn't mean to be silly. I guess I've been kidded, myself! You see, I met a young lady last night and she gave me that as her name and phone number."
