“Don’t I!” retorted his subordinate with some heat. “Then just lemme tell you that I’m the only normal gink left in the business. I’m sane; that’s what’s the matter with me! That’s what makes me look so queer and feel so lonely.”
“You’d have to prove it to me,” retorted his chief. “That’s because you’ve got it, too. Only yours takes a different form from the rest. Go back to bed, Boss. But first, where’s that file of special contracts?”
“Try the cabinet there. What do you want of ’em?”
Galpin found the documents, and turned upon Jeremy. “Boss, this man’s town had gone batty. Plumb bugs! Hopeless case.”
“You know what happens to a man who discovers that everybody else is crazy, Andy.”
“It’s gone completely nuts over The Guardian,” pursued the other, ignoring the intimation. “We’re a hobby. An obsession. A fad! A fashion! A killing! A—”
“What’s got you, Andy?” asked the editor anxiously. “Come down to earth.”
“Can’t! I’m a balloon. Watch me soar!” The usually stolid manager performed a bacchanalian fling. “Contracts!” he panted. “Reams of ’em! Money! Gobs of it! Circulation! Going uh-uh-up! Whee!”
“Andy, I’m not feeling very husky; but in a moment I shall throw you down and sit on your neck.”
“Can’t be done! I could lick the Kaiser and all his Botches single-handed. Boss, the luck has broke! The town is coming our way.”