their flight, these yellow hunters of the air, with rarely ever a
miss, pounced on their helpless victims and sailed away with them. The
last fly was gone ere Forrest had sipped his last sip of coffee,
marked "Commercial Breeding of Frogs" with a match, and taken up his
proofsheets.

After a time, the liquid-mellow cry of the meadow-lark, first vocal
for the day, caused him to desist. He looked at the clock. It marked
seven. He set aside the proofs and began a series of conversations by
means of the switchboard, which he manipulated with a practiced hand.

"Hello, Oh Joy," was his first talk. "Is Mr. Thayer up?... Very well.
Don't disturb him. I don't think he'll breakfast in bed, but find
out.... That's right, and show him how to work the hot water. Maybe he
doesn't know... Yes, that's right. Plan for one more boy as soon as
you can get him. There's always a crowd when the good weather comes
on.... Sure. Use your judgment. Good-by."

"Mr. Hanley?... Yes," was his second conversation, over another
switch. "I've been thinking about the dam on the Buckeye. I want the
figures on the gravel-haul and on the rock-crushing.... Yes, that's
it. I imagine that the gravel-haul will cost anywhere between six and
ten cents a yard more than the crushed rock. That last pitch of hill
is what eats up the gravel-teams. Work out the figures. ... No, we
won't be able to start for a fortnight. ... Yes, yes; the new
tractors, if they ever deliver, will release the horses from the
plowing, but they'll have to go back for the checking.... No, you'll
have to see Mr. Everan about that. Good-by."

And his third call: