“Want to quit taking the paper.”
Magpie snaps out his gun and covers Scenery.
“Get down on your knees and wipe out that —— spot!” snorts Magpie. “What do yuh think this is—a corral?”
“I—uh—” begins Scenery, but the gun don’t waver, so he takes the handkerchief off his neck, and scrubs our floor.
“This is a newspaper office, Scenery,” states Magpie. “You can’t start your oration with a cloud-burst in here. Sabe? What you got against the paper, and why for don’t yuh wish it no more?”
“I can’t read her,” he squeaks. “She’s too backward to suit me. Of course I—uh—well, send her along, and I’ll—uh—do the best I can. I got to go now.”
He slips out with his hat in his hand, and lopes off up the street.
“That’s business, Ike,” laughs Magpie. “I’m going to make ’em like it.”
“When yuh had the drop on him yuh ought to ’a ’collected in advance for another year,” says I. “You sure need a manager, Magpie, for The Piperock Pilot, Limited—to thirteen sheets and a death notice.”
“Howdy, gents,” states a voice at the door. “Is this the only newspaper in town?”