The telephone rang, and Gamadge leaned forward across his desk blotter—and across his yellow cat Martin—to pick up the receiver. Martin, lying stretched out on his side, asleep, did not open his eyes. He paid no attention to telephone bells. He was old, so old that nobody disturbed him any more.
As Gamadge leaned back again, receiver at his ear, Martin half awoke, and caught at Gamadge’s sleeve with a languid claw. As the sleeve receded, the claw disentangled itself and dropped away.
“Take it easy, ” said Gamadge, and addressed the telephone: “Gamadge speaking.”
He was sleepy himself. He had been looking up the sales history of an old book in old catalogues, and there was nothing about the job to keep him wakeful. Nothing in his surroundings, either—the quiet of the office, the low fire in the grate, the timelessness of a rainy day. It was Monday, the fifth of May, 1947; and so far the Spring of 1947 had been moist and chill.
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