"That settles it," said Billy. "How could you write a book if you don't know anything about grammar?"
"That stumps me, Billy, but I guess the printer can help me out."
"The printer ain't paid for doing that sort of thing; he won't help you out."
"The h—— he won't," responded I, angrily; "that's what he's paid for, isn't it?"
"I don't think," said Billy. "Say, Windy, you're clean off. Better turn in and sleep over it."
"Sleep over nothing," quickly retorted I; "am I the first man who ever wrote a book?"
"No, you ain't the first, nor the last damn fool who has tried it."
"Now, see here, Billy," said I, getting heated, "let me tell you something. I've read a whole lot of books in my time, and a good many of them weren't worth hell room. I've read detective stories that were written by fellows that didn't know anything about the detective business. Look at all the blood-and-thunder novels will you, that are turned out every year by the hundred. Not a word in them is true, yet lots of people read them. Why? Because they like them. See what kids read, will you? All about cowboys, Indians, scalping, buffalo hunting, the Wild West, etc. After the kids read such books they get loony and want to go on scalping expeditions themselves, so they steal money, run away from home, buy scalping knives, pistols and ammunition, and play hell generally. My book ain't that kind. When I write a book it will contain the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."
"So help you ——," irreverently put in Billy.