"Know he works here, of course," replied Stearns, viewing the weight apprehensively. "Say, Irish, don't talk to me! You'd better come out of it yourself."
"Works here?" repeated Micky, putting down the weight. "I haven't seen him."
"On his vacation," explained Fatty. "Expect him back tomorrow. My last whack at this stunt."
"So he does sports," observed Micky, taking a fresh cigar from Stearns' vest pocket. "I thought you did 'em right along."
"Me?" exploded Fatty, in incredulous oblivion of slaughtered grammar. His fat face expressed ludicrous amaze at the impression. "Why, man, he's the best sporting writer in town or anywhere else! I'm just supplyin'. Ordinarily I do odds and ends. I've done everything but time. Sometimes, when we're specially busy, I act as his assistant. He got me my job here when the News fired me."
Fatty was nothing if not ingenuous. Micky did not try to hide his grin, for it would make no difference with Fatty.
"Why, yes, I've read of that fellow," assented Micky, transferring a generous portion of the contents of Stearns' match box to his own pocket. "So he went into this rotten business, did he?"
"Why, yes, he's stuck on it," explained Fatty. "You see he's got money."
"Got money!" echoed Micky amazedly. "Gee whiz! then why—? Excuse me, Fatty, I'm asleep at the switch for fair."
"I don't know," floundered Fatty helplessly, "but anyway, his father's got money. But Dick likes this business just the same. Been at it since he left college."