James Shooneker. Yes, I have a book with a title something like that. Why do you ask?
Donald Worcester. If you’ve got one with you, I’d like a signed copy.
James Shooneker. I’m very sorry, but I didn’t bring any with me. Perhaps I can send you one later.
Donald Worcester. Fine! I wish you would. That’s treating me mighty good.
Madame Bonjoline. You deserve it, my boy.
In a confusion of thanks, apologies, and compliments, Worcester leaves the room and returns to the office, where an article is written which harbors no doubt that Madame Frizza is a great pianist. About the same hour, Mr. Morless is passing in a copy of his own criticism, stating that the Madame is a fairly promising amateur. The menacing cloud of Shooneker seems to hang over him; it has nearly prevented his passing in the article. And Ben Dullard Krupp, without a regular post, mails his lengthy and scathing opinion of the Madame to a weekly paper, in the hope of securing a steady allotment of their space. To him, also, the thought of an “outside” critic in their midst is irritating and, at times, threatening. What was HE going to say about her? His word might have weight. Suppose ... and Krupp wishes now he could reach into the mail-box and pull out his article. But the panic passes; he recalls several of his pet phrases, and this restores full confidence in his own finality.
Again—the same dining-room in the “Cave Dwellers,” with three of the critics disposing of an early lunch, almost early enough to be called breakfast.
Bowowski. They can’t print more than a couple hundred.
Hatchett. Somebody told me they had several thousand paid subscriptions, and then printed a bunch of extras.
Krupp. What difference does that make? The point is: what will they sell for? I’m good for my share, but there’s a limit, you know. Do you suppose that if I offered to do their musical criticism, they would destroy this issue as it stands?