Hatchett. You can’t tell. It isn’t “they” but “she.” You’re dealing with a woman, a young one at that.
Krupp. Oh, Hell; I can get around that difficulty. Waiter! Bring me a telephone! Hurry up!
Bowowski. Do you realize, gentlemen, that it is more than possible, in fact it is even likely, considerably more than probable, that we are right in the case of Madame Bonjoline, and that one James Shooneker is in error?
Hatchett. By George! That’s so, isn’t it!
Krupp. There’s no question about it. Just wait a minute now, while I call up this “Little Revolt”—ha! ha!—and see how they jump at the mention of my name.
Ben Dullard Krupp is informed over the wire that the new issue of The Little Review in large quantities is already in the mails, etc. In fact, at the same moment, the famous Shooneker is glancing through his own contribution; he swears at a misprint and puts the magazine in his suitcase, to read on the train. Madame Bonjoline does not open her copy, having read the article concerning herself from manuscript, two weeks before.
Krupp. Rank insolence, I call it!
Hatchett. What’s the matter? Won’t they sell?
Krupp. She says the mails are flooded with the impudent sheet.
Bowowski. Horrible! Horrible, indeed!