“Come right in, Buddy,” called Jeremy.
Buddy Higman entered. He was dressed with extreme correctness, even to the extent of a whole and intact pair of suspenders, and his Sunday coat which he carried genteelly over his arm. Jeremy pointed an accusing finger at him.
“I know what you’ve come here for.”
“Gee!” murmured Buddy, impressed.
“You’ve come to tell me how to run my paper.”
“Me?” said Buddy.
“Or to order something put in.”
“What—”
“Or kept out.”
“No, sir,” said the astounded Buddy.