“It’s a jerry-age,—jerry-built houses, furniture, machinery,—jerry-built literature, music, drama,—jerry-built nations too,—and marriages and children and every damned thing that once required good workmanship.
“Now, everything is glue and pasteboard and unskilled labour——”
“Oh, lay off on your jerry-built jeremiad!” cried Coltfoot, laughing. “Where do you get that stuff?”
“Stuff is right, too. I’m a fake, also. I’m a jerry-built author with a jerry-built education and I write jerry-bui——” He dodged a lump of ice.
“Shut up,” said Coltfoot wearily. “How long do you think I’m going to listen? Come on, now, what’s started you skidding, Barry?”
“You started me.”
“Oh—that line of talk I handed you?”
“It got under my skin.”
“Oh! Who’s been sticking the knife into you since? Not your fool public. Not the Great American Ass.”
Annan shook his head.