"Yes, and the nickel-plated nerve that goes with it," I went on.
"Every time this Stale guy goes to a theatre he makes it appear
that he was forced into a den of thieves and everybody he can point
out with his fountain pen is either a criminal or a dirty deuce.
What has he ever done that finished one, two, nine?"

"He's been fourflushing around for years about the pitiful
condition of the 'drammer,' but did he ever write a play that saw
the light of day? Nix.

"I'll bet eight dollars if he ever does get a play produced
there'll be nobody left in the theatre but the ushers and the spot
light after the first act."

"Lots of people think he is very clever," Bunch suggested,

"So is a trained goat," I came back. "If you stood a crowd of
handcuffed actors and authors and managers up in a corner and made
faces at them and called them names and blew spitballs in their
eyes you could get a laugh from the low foreheads, couldn't you,
Bunch?"

"Surest thing you know, John."

"Well, that's Grouchy Stale's line of endeavor. Say, Bunch, if it
were not for the knocks contained therein one of that guy's essays
would read like the maiden effort of a lovesick jellyfish.

"Did you ever pipe the pure and lofty and highly ennobling
sentiments, the spiritually beautiful inspiration which