“That’s Sunny, sure,” exclaimed Toby. “He’s a dandy at gettin’ out o’ things an’ leaving others in. Say––”
“Here, half-a-tick,” cried Joyce, with sudden inspiration. “Who’s goin’ to be ‘fightin’ editor’?”
“Gee, what a brain!” cried Sunny derisively. “Say, we ain’t runnin’ a mornin’ noos sheet. This is a trust. Sandy, my boy, you need educatin’. A trust’s a corporation of folks wot is so crooked, they got to git together, an’ pool their cash, so’s to git enough dollars to kep ’em out o’ penitentiary. That’s how they start. Later on, if they kep clear o’ the penitentiary, they start in to fake the market till the Gover’ment butts in. Then they git gay, buy up a vote in Congress, an’ fake the laws so they’re fixed right fer themselves. After that some of them git religion, some of ’em give trick feeds to their friends, some of ’em start in to hang jewels on stage females. Some of ’em have been known to shoot theirselves or git divorced. It ain’t no sort o’ matter wot they do, pervided they’re civil to the noospaper folk. That’s a trust, Sandy, an’ I don’t say but what the feller as tho’t o’ that name must o’ bin a tarnation amusin’ feller.”
“Say, you orter bin in a cirkis,” sneered Sandy, as the loafer finished his disquisition.
“Wal, I’d say that’s better’n a museum,” retorted Sunny.
But Toby was impatient to hear how Sunny intended to dispose of him.
“Wher’ do I figger in this lay-out?” he demanded.
“You?” Sunny’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t guess we’ll need to give you hard work. You best be boss o’ the workin’ staff.”
“But ther’ ain’t no workin’ staff,” protested Toby.
“Jest so. That’s why you’ll be boss of it.” Then Sunny turned to Sandy.