"Bills," he continued, "are not easy to stick, lemme tell you, sir. Sign paintin's a soft snap when it comes to bill-stickin'. Now, I guess I've stuck more bills in New York State than ennybody."
"Have you?" I said angrily.
"Yes, siree! I always pick out the purtiest spots—kinder filled chuck full of woods and brooks and things; then I h'ist my paste-pot onto a rock, and I slather that rock with gum, and whoop she goes!"
"Whoop what goes?"
"The bill. I paste her onto the rock, with one swipe of the brush for the edges and a back-handed swipe for the finish—except when a bill is folded in two halves."
"And what do you do then?" I asked, disgusted.
"Swipe twice," said Frisby with enthusiasm.
"And you don't think it injures the landscape?"
"Injures it!" he exclaimed, convinced that I was attempting to joke.
I looked wearily out to sea. He also looked at the water and sighed sentimentally.