He talked over the situation with Coltfoot, who was loath to lose him and muttered of moneys.
“No, Mike,” concluded Annan, “I’ve had my romp in your kindly columns. You let me train there. I feel fit for the fight, now. I’m on tip-toe, all pepped up.”
“How much do you want then?” demanded Coltfoot, unconvinced.
“Nothing. I’ve about a million things I want to try——”
“Bosco,” nodded the other wearily;—“I know. But you’ll end in a Coney Island show, matched against all comers to eat twenty-five feet of sausages in twenty-five minutes.... Do a serial for us. We’ve never tried it but I believe the newspaper is destined to put the magazine out of business. I’ll take a chance, anyway. Will you?”
“Maybe. I’m going to do a story—a kind of novel—a thing—something——”
“I’ll take it without sample or further identification. It may cost me my job. Are we on?”
“No, you crazy Irishman. Let me alone, I tell you. I may change my mind and try a play, or a continuity direct,—hang it all, I might even burst into verse. Do you want some poems?” he threatened.
“No,” replied Coltfoot calmly, “but I’ll take them.”