Chuck

Luckily, he reflected many times in the past it usually had turned out to be the right thing.

He shrugged his shoulders and said half-jokingly,

Fran dialed the operator, gave the number, and in the interim before the connection was made, the quiet of the country seemed depressed from the black out-of-doors around them in this lit oasis of the night.

Takes that operator an awfully long time, said Fran aloud.

Finally, the ringing commenced.

It seemed interminable to Art, sitting on the other side of the room.

At last, there was an answer, for Fran said, Hello, Cynthia.

But all was not well, Art knew, from the way his wife's hand tightened to whiteness around the receiver.

Fran seemed to be explaining, pleading, and finally, Arthur came to her side and spoke down to her upturned face.

She shook her head.

He took the phone and a sloth's voice assailed him, droning on.

Fran was sitting on the edge of her chair, terrified.

Cynthia!

He called sharply.

What's wrong?

Are you ill?

Where's Jack?

Put him on.

He could barely make sense out of this thing.

Cynthia was saying slowly, laboriously, as though drugged or sick, that Jack had passed out and that, funny, she couldn't seem to get any help.