Rubberneck, eh, what? Sixteen editors,
fourteen reporters and twenty-three linotype men would take a
running kick at old Buttinski, and there wouldn't be enough of him
left to give the coroner an excuse to look solemn."
"I thought Stale used to write books," Bunch put in.
"He thought so, too, but the public passed him the ice pitcher," I
said. "He started in to be a successful author and then he bit his
tongue."
"He'll get after you good and hard if he hears you talking this
way," Bunch admonished.
"Say! Bunch! he's been after me for five years and he hasn't
caught up with me yet. Every time he's had a chance he's tossed a
few sneers in my direction, so I made up my mind the other day I'd
coax him down to the foundry and throw the anvil at him. If ever I
do cut loose on that Birmingham gent he'll think he has swallowed
one of his own harpoons. He's a case of Perpetual Grouch because
it gets the dough for him on pay-day.
"If somebody ever steals his hammer he'll be doing hotfoots for the
handout thing and he'll eat about once a week.
"It's a brave and glorious spectacle, isn't it, Bunch, to watch
this mouldy writer, with a big newspaper behind him and columns of
space at his command, throwing his hooks into actors and actresses
who haven't a chance on earth to get back.
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