"Where did the stuff come from?"

"Out of the fresh air," replied the operator. "From most anywhere inside
the zone of communication."

"Couldn't you tell who sent it?"

"No way. It wasn't signed. Come from quite a distance, though."

"How can you tell that?"

"You can tell by the way it sounds. Say, they ought to be a law about
these amatoors cluttering up the air this way. Sometimes I got to pick my
own dope out of a dozen or fifteen messages all ticking away in my
headpiece at once."

"I know the crazy slob what sent 'em, all right, all right," growled
McCarthy. "He's nutty for fair."

"Well, if he's nutty, I wish you'd hurry his little trip to Matteawan,"
complained the operator, turning away.

The boss went to his office, where he established himself behind his
table-top desk. There all day he conducted a leisurely business of
mysterious import, sitting where the cool autumn breeze from the river
brought its refreshment. His desk top held no papers; the writing
materials lay undisturbed. Sometimes the office contained half a dozen
people. Sometimes it was quite empty, and McCarthy sat drumming his blunt
fingers on the window-sill, chewing a cigar, and gazing out over the city