“Your readers will wail like a bunch of banshees over it. It’s dingy, squalid, photographic. What more does the Great American Ass require?”
“That’s his fodder,” admitted Coltfoot. “Now g’wan outa here, you licensed push-cart bandit!... By the way, how’s the park-bencher this morning?”
“Asleep when I left the house.” He seated himself sideways on Coltfoot’s desk:
“Mike, do you know she’s exceedingly pretty?”
“How should I know?... But trust you to pick that kind——”
“I forgot that you’ve never seen her. Well, last night after you left I stopped to look in on her, and, honestly, her beauty startled me. She’s beautiful thick chestnut hair and fine grey eyes, and the loveliest mouth—its expression is charming!—and really, Mike, her arms and hands are delicate enough for a Psyche. Maybe she milked and fed ducks, but I can’t see any of the hick about her——”
He smiled, made one of his characteristic, graceful gestures: “It’s funny, but there she is. And yet, I’d not venture to use her in a story ‘as is.’ Because my wise guys wouldn’t believe in her. I’d be damned as a romanticist. And you’d chuck me out of the Sunday Edition.”
Coltfoot sat gazing up at him for a few moments, then put on his reading-spectacles and pawed at a wad of proof.
“I’m going to chuck you out of this office anyway,” he grunted.