“Lady, you’re runnin’ up a tree that’s bound to be struck by lightnin’.... Listen, there’s jest you ’n’ Simmy ’n’ that perfessor feller. Count us up—four. What chanct we got?”
“Against whom, Tubal?”
“The ones we hain’t got no chanct ag’in’,” he said noncommittally. “I dunno, Lady, and if I knowed I wouldn’t tell. Men that hain’t afraid to do away with a sheriff wouldn’t come to a sweat over disposin’ of a printer like me.”
“It’s the business of a newspaper——”
“To make a livin’ for the owners of it and to keep out of libel suits. Stick to that, Lady. Hain’t this sheet in a bad enough way without your tyin’ a rock to it and throwin’ it in the river?”
“We’re wasting time,” said Carmel.
“You’re bound and determined to print this here?”
“I’ll print that if it’s the last act of my life.”
“Wa-al, if that’s the way you feel.... Mebby it will be, mebby not, seems as though.” He walked to the door, and there turned. “I own a book of synonyms,” he said.
“Yes, Tubal.”