Part 2 (1/2)

”Ordinary days that joker might be funny,” Mort said. ”But now I'm thinking this isn't an ordinary day. I'm thinking it's not as funny as I first thought.”

He crossed to the telephone booth, jerked the receiver from the hook, and bellowed into the mouthpiece.

”h.e.l.lo!”

There was a brief pause in which someone said something to him from the other end of the wire.

”Listen!” Mort suddenly exploded. ”Nothing is funny three times, wise guy. I wish you would take your Hitler-Mussolini gag and--” at which point he described what he wanted the caller to do with the gag. Then, slamming the receiver back into the hook, Mort stormed out of the booth.

”Same guy?” Mike demanded, his veins bulging in his thick, freckled neck.

”Same guy,” Mort said grimly. His lips were tight. ”He asked if we could get Hitler and Musso to the phone in a hurry. He said the connection was getting weaker and weaker, and he was afraid it wouldn't hold out much longer.”

”The connection?” I broke in, puzzled.

Mort looked on the verge of apoplexy. ”The connection from where he was calling to earth, the wise guy said!” he exploded. ”If we could only trace that call I'd break that no-good's neck!”

Mike and Mort evidently took turns acting as sobering influence on each other.

”Now we don't wanta get too riled,” Mike pointed out with surprising sense. ”The gag artist prob'ly wants we should get mad like this.

We'll forget 'em. I'll call for the morning line and the odd changes for the first races.”

Mort drummed his fingers on the cigar showcase, cooling himself off.

Mike marched over to the telephone booth and wedged himself inside.

With one big red finger, he dialed a number rapidly after he took the telephone from the hook. But he only half completed his dialing. It broke off as he uttered a choking curse.

”Listen you!” Mike suddenly bellowed, the echoes in the booth almost knocking it over. ”Get the h.e.l.l offa this line! Howdja get on in the first place?”

Mort stopped drumming his fingers and glanced startledly at the booth.

Crimson began to return to his face.

”What's up?” he shouted. He started toward the booth. I followed him.

We could hear Mike spluttering incoherently inside. Then there was an ear-splitting racket as the big bookie smashed the receiver back into the hook and turned purple faced toward us.

”The gag artist!” he raged. ”The same d.a.m.n wise guy. The Hitler-Mussolini smart aleck. He was waitin' on the line. He hadn't hung up. He told me he hadda wait on the line, cause he didn't dare break off the connection. He said it was too hard to make inna first place. He said he hoped we didn't mind if he waited until we got Adolf and Benito on the wire fer him!”

By now Mort was spluttering, and this time neither partner seemed to have a calming effect on the other. They were both raging, boiling mad.

”I'll call the cops!” Mike bellowed. ”That's what I'll do!” He began to pace up and down. ”I'll have that guy electrocuted!”

”I'm going out,” Mort stormed, ”and get the operator onna 'nother phone. I'll report that so-and-so, and they'll trace him down through the telephone company!”

He started for the door. Mike grabbed his arm.

”Waita minute!” he exclaimed. ”We can't do that!”