“Tell the fitin edittur that there's a gentleman, down in the offis, wants to intervue him. Tell him he'd better lode up his dubble-barrl'd, breech-lodin blunderbuss with dannymite cartrag cos the gentleman prefers a-heeted argument.”
Then I turned round and told the man that the edittur 'd be down in a minnit.
He cooled rite off and sed:
“Thank you, my boy; there's no hurry; I guess you'll do jest as well. I only called to pay for your valuabel paper. Tell the edittur my hole family culdn't get along without it; even the baby lays awake all nite cry in' for it.”
And then he handed me a $10 bill and didn't wate for no change, for he ony had a cuppel uv minnits to each a trane in. Mr. Gilley was listenin' to the hull conversashun, an', wen the coast was cleer, he come out from his hidin' place and patted me on the back and sez:
“Georgie, you're a brick; you're goin' to be a onher to your perfeshun. Sum day you'll be a Pulsitter, cos you've got the gall of a Sun reporter.”
I wonder if Sun reporters swet much, cos I never go golled 'less it was in summer wen pa maid me play the fiddel with the old buck saw, gettin' the wood reddy for winter. I guess I must be a hero, cos the sportin' edittur, wen he hurd wot I did, took me to the fotograf gallarv, and had my pictur taken, so as he culd pass me off for the new English prize fiter, wot he's training so as he can lick Sullivan.
CHAPTER VII.
HE INTERVUES ELI PERKINS AND GETS SUM POINTS ON JURNERLISTIC
EGGSAGGERASHUN, PREVARICASHUN AND MAGNIFYCASHUN.—Y PULLMAN
STOK IS GOIN UP.