"They don't go up against it any more, Bunch," I said. "They are
shifty young guys in the theatrical business nowadays, and they
sidestep the hammer-throwers. Mr. Stale is a back number, and his
harpoon can't stop a dollar bill from flutering into any man's box
office."

"He thinks he can, all right," Bunch muttered.

"Well, there are two thinks and a half still due him," I said.
"Who ever gave that guy a license to splash ink all over a
production and hold actors, authors and managers up to ridicule?
Did you ever hear of an actor or an author or a manager getting out
a three-sheet which held a newspaper up to ridicule?"

"Not on your endowment policy," Bunch chimed in.

"Well, isn't a newspaper just as much of a public institution as a
theatre? Suppose a manager were to call in a rubberneck, hand him
a tool box and send him to a newspaper office to look for a splashy
production on a busy night. Suppose, further, that after the paper
went to press Mr. Rubberneck opened up his tool box and began to
pound on the leading man in the print shop for having a bunch of
bad grammar in his editorial column, and after that, suppose our
friend with the glistening eyes jumped on one of the sub-editors
because the woman's page was out of alignment, or made a rave
because the jokes in the funny column were all to the ancient, what
would happen to Mr. Rubberneck, eh, what? Sixteen editors,
fourteen reporters and twenty-three linotype men would take a
running kick at old Buttinski, and there wouldn't be enough of him