“What do you want with me?”
“Kill that paragraph.”
“What par—”
“Don’t fence with me,” struck in Banneker sharply. “You know what one.”
Major Bussey swept his gaze around the room for help or inspiration. The sight of the burly ex-policeman, stricken and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, disconcerted him sadly; but he plucked up courage to say:
“The facts are well authent—”
Again Banneker cut him short. “Facts! There isn’t the semblance of a fact in the whole thing. Hints, slurs, innuendoes.”
“Libel does not exist when—” feebly began the editor, and stopped because Banneker was laughing at him.
“Suppose you read that,” said the visitor, contemptuously tossing the typed script of his new-wrought editorial on the desk. “That’s libellous, if you choose. But I don’t think you would sue.”
Major Bussey read the caption, a typical Banneker eye-catcher, “The Rattlesnake Dies Out; But the Pen-Viper is Still With Us.” “I don’t care to indulge myself with your literary efforts at present, Mr. Banneker,” he said languidly. “Is this the answer to our paragraph?”