“Incidentally, my picture of Sol Glenhart, the police judge, was good. A striking likeness, and unmistakable, with phrases tripping along like this: ‘This crook-nosed, gross-bodied harpy’; ‘this civic sinner, this judicial highwayman’; ‘possessing the morals of the Tenderloin and an honor which thieves’ honor puts to shame’; ‘who compounds criminality with shyster-sharks, and in atonement railroads the unfortunate and impecunious to rotting cells,’—and so forth and so forth, style sophomoric and devoid of the dignity and tone one would employ in a dissertation on ‘Surplus Value,’ or ‘The Fallacies of Marxism,’ but just the stuff the dear public likes.
“‘Humph!’ grunted Spargo when I put the copy in his fist. ‘Swift gait you strike, my man.’
“I fixed a hypnotic eye on his vest pocket, and he passed out one of his superior cigars, which I burned while he ran through the stuff. Twice or thrice he looked over the top of the paper at me, searchingly, but said nothing till he had finished.
“‘Where’d you work, you pencil-pusher?’ he asked.
“‘My maiden effort,’ I simpered modestly, scraping one foot and faintly simulating embarrassment.
“‘Maiden hell! What salary do you want?’
“‘Nay, nay,’ I answered. ‘No salary in mine, thank you most to death. I am a free down-trodden American citizen, and no man shall say my time is his.’
“‘Save John Law,’ he chuckled.
“‘Save John Law,’ said I.
“‘How did you know I was bucking the police department?’ he demanded abruptly.