"Surest thing you know, John."
"Well, that's Grouchy Stale's line of endeavor. Say, Bunch, if it were not for the knocks contained therein one of that guy's essays would read like the maiden effort of a lovesick jellyfish.
"Did you ever pipe the pure and lofty and highly ennobling sentiments, the spiritually beautiful inspiration which characterizes that book of his—that deft little dip into degeneracy—something about a frozen wedding! Oh, slush! Percy, pass the cigarettes!"
"There must be a certain class of people who read that kind of criticism," Bunch said.
"That windy stuff Stale hands out is supposed to be criticism,
Bunch, but it isn't—it's typewritten egotism."
"Yes, but it's useless for you to go after him, John; he'll only hand you another javelin."
"Well, the next time that dub throws the gaff into me I'll know he has a reason for it. Hereafter, every time he bats an eye in my direction it's me for a swift get-back, I'll tell you those!"
"You should bear the ills of the flesh with Christian fortitude," grinned Bunch.
"Nix," I said. "I'm tired holding up something fat for a mutt like that to paddle with a slapstick!"