We quickly located the newspaper office. Entering the building, we found an elderly man back of the counter writing in a big book. We tried to get his attention, but he was too busy to notice us. Scoop got huffy.
“Is this a printing plant?” he inquired in a sharp voice.
The bookkeeper lifted his head and scowled at us over his glasses.
“I thought it was a printing plant when I first came in,” Scoop went on, squinting around curious-like, “but it seems to be a sort of waiting room … for customers.”
The man’s face went red under the thrust.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“Could you print four hundred handbills in a hurry?”
“That all depends. Who’s orderin’ ’em?”
“We are.”
“And who are ‘we’?”