"Because we can't afford to keep a fighting editor in this office; and I don't want to get into difficulties."
"What difficulties will you get into?" said Bragg.
"Plenty of them. I don't want my head broken with a cudgel, sir."
"Who is going to break your head?" said Bragg.
"There are plenty of people in these parts to do it, sir, and on slight provocation. Last winter a fellow came into this office just before we went to press, and left an advertisement which he paid for, saying that he wanted it to appear in our issue of that day. It was a certificate that Samuel Crabstick, who is a bald-headed man, had bought a bottle of Dr. Bamboozle's celebrated hair ointment, and applied it to his bare scalp, and that in forty-eight hours after the first application a fine suit of hair had grown all over his head, seven inches in length. Well, what were the consequences, sir? Why, the whole town was talking and laughing about this wonderful growth of hair. And next morning old Crabstick walked into the office, and, after much profanity, assaulted me with a heavy bludgeon. Had it not been for my devil, who come behind him and put him hors de combat with the hot poker, he would have broken my bones, sir. So your advertisement cannot go in my paper unless you leave your name for reference."
"I don't want it in your paper," said Bragg. "I want it printed like a hand-bill."
"Oh, that alters the case. You take the responsibility."
"Here! I want these three words,—look, will you?—Botts—Poltroon—Coward,—printed in your largest letters."
"We have type big enough," said the printer, producing some wooden blocks about three inches long.
"Those will do," said Bragg. "Now, go to work—quick—hurry!"