A Direct Line

I scampered out the front gate and straight down to the weekend flea market! Sitting right on a dusty velvet runner was a heavy black rotary telephone with shiny chrome trim. A bona fide mechanical marvel! I hooked both gloved hands into the dial hole for number zero, braced my boots against the handset cradle, and hauled down with all my weight. *Whirrr-click!* The dial wound all the way to the brass finger stop. Then—whoosh! The internal spring whipped backward, spinning me around like a pinwheel before launching me tail-first into an open wicker hatbox. *Ding!* Now that’s what I call a snappy connection!