BELLMAUS.
It just fitted. There were exactly six lines left.
BOLZ.
That is an excuse, but not a good one. Invent your own stories. What are you a journalist for? Make a little "Communication," an observation, for instance, on human life in general, or something about dogs running around loose in the streets; or choose a bloodcurdling story such as a murder out of politeness, or how a woodchuck bit seven sleeping children, or something of that kind. So infinitely much happens, and so infinitely much does not happen, that an honest newspaper man ought never to be without news.
BELLMAUS.
Give it here, I will change it.
[Goes to the table, looks into a printed sheet, cuts a clipping from it with large shears, and pastes it on the copy of the newspaper.]
BOLZ.
That's right, my son, so do, and mend thy ways.
[Opening the door on the right.]