“And I was going to sit down righteously and write an article.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh a dodaddle called Confessions of a Cub Reporter.”

“Look is this Thursday?”

“Yare.”

“Then I know where she’ll be.”

“I’m going to light out of it all,” said Jimmy somberly, “and go to Mexico and make my fortune.... I’m losing all the best part of my life rotting in New York.”

“How’ll you make your fortune?”

“Oil, gold, highway robbery, anything so long as it’s not newspaper work.”

“Baa baa black sheep baa baa.”