More Deadly Than The Male

It took him some time to find Harris & Son in the telephone book. There were twenty-seven columns of Harrises to wade through. The telephone box was hot and stuffy, and George kept looking down the street, worried in case Sydney suddenly decided to find out whom he was calling. When eventually he found the number, he was dismayed and exasperated to find that he had no coppers. He decided recklessly to use sixpence, but the sixpence persisted in falling right through the box and coming back to him: it was as if it was endowed with human feelings and resented his extravagant mood. Thoroughly irritated, George left the 'phone box and looked up and down the road. Sydney had disappeared, but a policeman was coming along.

George got some coppers off the policeman—coppers from a copper! he thought foolishly—and returned to the telephone box. He dialled the number and waited. Brr-brr! . . . Brr-brr! In a moment or so he would be listening to her cold, tight, exciting voice. What a marvellous invention the telephone was! he thought. They were taking their time about answering. He shifted impatiently. Phew! It was hot in this booth. Brr-hrr! . . . Brr-brr! The bell went on and on. No one answered. George stood there, obstinate, sweating, irritated. What were they playing at? he asked himself. Why didn't they answer? Then he remembered. What a fool! Sunday! Of course, the shop would be shut! Oh hell! Now he would have to wait until tomorrow. He hung up and pressed button "B". Coming out into the sunshine, he felt suddenly deflated. Twenty-four hours . . . how absolutely sickening! he thought. Why did she have to have a telephone in a shop? That meant he would never be able to talk to her on a Sunday. That meant that from now on Sunday was going to be the worst day of the week, instead of being the best day. It was a day he looked forward to because he had something to do in the afternoon as well as in the evening- it was also the best day for business. Now it would be the day when he was cut off entirely from Cora.

As it happened, it turned out to be the worst day he had had for a long time. People were ruder to him, more people were out, more people wouldn't come to the front door, although he could see them peeping at him through the curtains. When he did get inside, he found he wasn't concentrating, and he did not succeed in getting anyone sufficiently enthusiastic to sign an order form. Those who showed a slight inclination to buy put him off by asking him to call again. "I want to think about it," they said. "I don't want to rush into anything."

Of course, to make matters worse, Sydney got three orders. At the end of the evening, when they decided to go home, Sydney joined him at the corner.

"How many?" he said, looking at George with a jeering expression in his eyes.

George was tempted to lie, but he knew Sydney would demand to see the completed order forms, so he just shrugged and admitted he hadn't had any luck.

"Well, I got three," Sydney said in triumph. "What's the matter with you? Got something on your mind?"

Of course he had something on his mind, but he couldn't tell Sydney about that.

"It's just the luck of the game," he said, envious and disappointed. "I've worked through a lot of dead calls, and I'll get a hatch of orders tomorrow."

"You hope," Sydney said, and laughed.

Monday wasn't much better. He was in a fever of excitement all the morning and afternoon. When Sydney and he reached Wembley at four o'clock, and as soon as Sydney was safely out of the way in one of the little houses, George rushed to the telephone box.

"'Ullo?" said a man's voice in George's ear.

"Could I speak to Miss Brant?" George asked, trying to imagine what the man looked like from the sound of his voice.

"'Oo?"

"Miss Brant," George repeated, raising his voice. "Not now, yer can't. I got no one to send."

"But I must speak to Miss Brant," George said firmly. "Well. I dunno. I can't leave the shop, now can I? It means going hup the stairs. I ain't good at stairs, either . . . not at my age, I ain't. Can't you ring later? The missus'll be hack then."

"No, I can't," George said, thoroughly irritated. "I understood that Miss Brant could use your 'phone. I want to speak to her."

"Orl right, orl right," the voice said crossly. "I'll give 'er a yell. 'Ang on, will yer?"