"Will she dance in her copper-toe boots?" asks Bat.
"Wull dance at the H—— i-o-f lodge meetin' at—"
"That'll do, get her out of this," ordered the news-man. "It grows worse every day. Every damphool thinks the world is aching for an interview with himself, from the mining fakirs to the Shanty Town brats: it's seeped down to the kids. You go home, kid, and tell your mother to spank you special extra—"
They heard the fat little legs stumping down the stairs. "That kid belongs to Shanty Town. She dances for the bar room buffers now; she'll dance later, like you and me, Bat, for bigger bluffers. Freedom of the press! Damn it, I'm sick of the bunco game, Bat—"
"Draw it easy," drawled Bat. "If you're sick of it, it's dead easy to get out. I guess the kid is doing the same thing as you and me: 'Give us this day our daily bread.' How's the story? Will you give it a flare head?"
"Will there be any charge?" ironically repeated the news-man.
"Not for Moyese," smiled the handy man sleepily, "and say, if I were you, I'd do one of two things, get rid of my conscience or get a tonic for my nerves."
The telephone rang. The news-man ran to the receiver and a moment later slammed it back on the hook.
"Old frump, giving namby pamby talks on woman's influence in politics without votes." The news editor spat aimlessly.
Bat tapped the story of the Rim Rocks with his pencil. "Well," he asked.