The Holes and John Smith

by Edward W. Ludwig

"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay—just as long as you want him."

"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."

"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli."

Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.

A reporter from the Marsport Times ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.

"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed. "I—I'm scared.

"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."

We watched.

John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook.

John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble.