Wick, of Chicago," I demanded.
"_Is his room number Sixty-two ?_" That is the kind of mind which you usually find attached to the New York end of a trans-American telephone.

But one does not bandy words across a thousand miles of country with a hotel clerk, so I merely responded: "Very probably." There was a pause, and then the still small voice came again.
"_Mr.Wick is in bed at present.

Anything important ?_" I reflected that while I in Chicago was speaking to the hotel clerk at half-past nine o'clock, the hotel clerk in New York was speaking to me at eleven.

This in itself was enough to make our conversation disjointed.
"Yes," I responded, "it is important.

Ask Mr.Wick to get out of bed." Sufficient time elapsed to enable poppa to put on his clothes and come down by the elevator, and then I heard: "_Mr.Wick is now speaking_." "Yes, poppa," I replied, "I guess you are.