“South 343. No, no, no! I said South—South 343. Say, operator, what the dickens is the trouble? Can’t you get me South 343? Why certainly they’ll answer. Oh, Hello, 343? Wanta speak Mist’ Riesling, Mist’ Babbitt talking.... ‘Lo, Paul?”
“Yuh.”
“’S George speaking.”
“Yuh.”
“How’s old socks?”
“Fair to middlin’. How’re you?”
“Fine, Paulibus. Well, what do you know?”
“Oh, nothing much.”
“Where you been keepin’ yourself?”
“Oh, just stickin’ round. What’s up, Georgie?”