"Did you ever pipe the pure and lofty and highly ennobling
sentiments, the spiritually beautiful inspiration which
characterizes that book of his--that deft little dip into
degeneracy--something about a frozen wedding! Oh, slush! Percy,
pass the cigarettes!"
"There must be a certain class of people who read that kind of
criticism," Bunch said.
"That windy stuff Stale hands out is supposed to be criticism,
Bunch, but it isn't--it's typewritten egotism."
"Yes, but it's useless for you to go after him, John; he'll only
hand you another javelin."
"Well, the next time that dub throws the gaff into me I'll know he
has a reason for it. Hereafter, every time he bats an eye in my
direction it's me for a swift get-back, I'll tell you those!"
"You should bear the ills of the flesh with Christian fortitude,"
grinned Bunch.
"Nix," I said. "I'm tired holding up something fat for a mutt like
that to paddle with a slapstick!"
CHAPTER IV.
JOHN HENRY GETS A SHOCK.
A few minutes later we went into the general restaurant and found
Signor Petroskinski waiting for us.
His right name was Jeff Mulligan, but Petroskinski sounded more
foreign, and he fell for it.
I introduced Skinski to Bunch, and in five minutes all the business
details were settled.
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