The B. Cohens resident in Berkeley, Oakland, Alameda, San Rafael, Sausalito, Mill Valley, San Mateo, Redwood City and Palo Alto were next telephoned to, and when this long and expensive task was done, Ex-Private Bill Peck emerged from the telephone booth wringing wet with perspiration and as irritable as a clucking hen. Once outside the hotel he raised his haggard face to heaven and dumbly queried of the Almighty what He meant by saving him from quick death on the field of honor only to condemn him to be talked to death by B. Cohens in civil life.
It was now six o’clock. Suddenly Peck had an inspiration. Was the name spelled Cohen, Cohan, Cohn, Kohn or Coen?
“If I have to take a Jewish census again tonight I’ll die,” he told himself desperately, and went back to the art shop.
The sign read: B. Cohn’s art shop.
“I wish I knew a bootlegger’s joint,” poor Peck complained. “I’m pretty far gone and a little wood alcohol couldn’t hurt me much now. Why, I could have sworn that name was spelled with an E. It seems to me I noted that particularly.”
He went back to the hotel telephone booth and commenced calling up all the B. Cohns in town. There were eight of them and six of them were out, one was maudlin with liquor and the other was very deaf and shouted unintelligibly.
“Peace hath its barbarities no less than war,” Mr. Peck sighed. He changed a twenty-dollar bill into nickles, dimes and quarters, returned to the hot, ill-smelling telephone booth and proceeded to lay down a barrage of telephone calls to the B. Cohns of all towns of any importance contiguous to San Francisco Bay. And he was lucky. On the sixth call he located the particular B. Cohn in San Rafael, only to be informed by Mr. Cohn’s cook that Mr. Cohn was dining at the home of a Mr. Simons in Mill Valley.
There were three Mr. Simons in Mill Valley, and Peck called them all before connecting with the right one. Yes, Mr. B. Cohn was there. Who wished to speak to him? Mr. Heck? Oh, Mr. Lake! A silence. Then—Mr. Cohn says he doesn’t know any Mr. Lake and wants to know the nature of your business. He is dining and doesn’t like to be disturbed unless the matter is of grave importance.”
“Tell him Mr. Peck wishes to speak to him on a matter of very great importance,” wailed the ex-private.
“Mr. Metz? Mr. Ben Metz?
“No, no, no. Peck—p-e-c-k.”
“D-e-c-k?”
“No, P.”
“C?”
“P.”
“Oh, yes, E. E-what?”
“C-K—”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Eckstein.”
“Call Cohn to the ’phone or I’ll go over there on the next boat and kill you, you damned idiot,” shrieked Peck. “Tell him his store is on fire.”
That message was evidently delivered for almost instantly Mr. B. Cohn was puffing and spluttering into the phone.
“Iss dot der fire marshal?” he managed to articulate.