Piddie, of course, said the right and elegant thing, just as if he'd learned it out of a book. He always does, you know. Makes a reg'lar little speech, and finishes by givin' me the fraternal handclasp and a pat on the shoulder.
But a minute after I caught him gazin' at me wonderin', and he goes off shakin' his head.
Then I runs across my newspaper friend Whitey Weeks, who used to know me when I was a cub office-boy on the Sunday editor's door.
"Well, Torchy," says he, "what you got on your mind?"
"Nothing you could make copy out of," says I, "but it's a whale of an event for me."
"You don't say," says he. "Somebody died and left you the business?"
"Just the opposite," says I.
"I don't get you," says he.
"Ah, what's usually in the next column?" says I. "It's a case of somebody bein' born."
"Why—why," says he, openin' his mouth, "you don't mean that——"