“Bill, I could continue all night dissecting the common, or garden, variety of moron. Then there’s the highbrow moron to be dealt with, too. But I haven’t time, and I think you know what a moron is, anyway. But I’ll add just one more trait by which you may always know one when you meet one. A moron is convinced that he is the only person on earth who isn’t a moron.”
“What’s the population of the United States?” asked Bill, after a period of thought.
“Something over a hundred million, I believe.”
“Huh!” snorted Bill. “So many as that? But you and me, Tony, we’re—”
“Look out, Bill! Be careful!”
Bill’s pudgy hand darted to his mouth and covered it in that boyish gesture which so greatly amused his friend.
“Maybe I am one, after all,” he said, when he dared remove his hand. “But how’d that bird down there to Spur get onto it?”
“What happened, Bill?” Joshua questioned him.
“Well, he’s the boss o’ th’ supply deepo down at Spur, an’s got th’ job o’ buyin’ an’ receivin’ all th’ stuff for Demarest, Spruce and Tillou, an’ gettin’ it started on its way to the camps. He’s one o’ these dapper little fellas, with a nice white collar on, an’ a gold pencil to figger with, an’ one o’ these here slim cigarette holders about a foot long always between his teeth.
“‘What!’ he says to me. ‘D’ye mean to tell me that ye won’t take two more sacks o’ hams on that load?’