She seated herself and threw a quality of rigidity into her backbone calculated to impress if not actually to appeal. “I want your help,” she said.
“Fine, fat way you’ve got of opening up a request for a favor,” he retorted, recovering himself somewhat, and in a particularly discouraging voice. But the shrewd old judge of human nature before him marked the little pursing at the corners of the mouth. “I’ll bet I know what it is.”
“I’ll bet all the money I’ve got in the bank and my best gold tooth thrown in you don’t,” was the prompt retort.
“There’s a sporting proposition, all right,” cried the editor in great admiration. “I thought you was going to ask me to let up on the city administration now you’ve got one of the fat jobs in the family, with your Dr. Strong.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t have to make guesses for a living,” returned his caller scornfully. “Pitch into the administration as hard as you like. I don’t care. All I want is for you to print the news about this diphtheria epidemic.”
“Is that all?” There was a profound sardonicism in the final word.
“Come to think of it, it isn’t. I want you to print some editorials, too, telling people how to take care of themselves while the disease is spreading.”
“Anything more?”
“Well, you might do the same thing about the measles epidemic.”
“Harr-rr-rr!” It was a singular growl, not wholly compounded of wrath and disgust. “Doc Strong send you here?”