I have invented a new telephone game. It is a thoroughly discreditable,
anti-social game, and I am not proud of it, but it has been forced
upon me by circumstances. It is now clear that my telephone number
is the only one the operators know, and my game follows the lines of
all the best modern movements, the principle of which is that, if
you cannot hit the man you are annoyed with, you hit somebody else
instead. Nowadays, when some perfect stranger is introduced to me in
error on the telephone, I no longer murmur, “Wrong number, I’m afraid,”
in my usual accents of sweet sympathy, cool resignation, irritation,
hatred or black despair; I pretend that it is the _right_ number. I
lead my fellow-victim on into a morass of mystification; I worm out
his precious secrets; I waste his precious time. If you can square
your conscience you will find it is a glorious game, though I ought
to add that considerable skill is required. It is best, perhaps, to
make a general rule of answering the call in the first instance in
a high feminine voice, as much like a housemaid, or a charwoman,
or a Government typist as possible; then you are prepared for any
development.