"Sounds thrilling," says he. "Any copy in it?"

"I'd be chatterin' it to you, wouldn't I?" says I. "Nix! Just plain
fam'ly scrap over whether Cousin Inez shall marry again or not. My job
is to get something on the guy. Don't happen to have any special dope
on T. Virgil Bunn, the sculptor poet, do you?"

Whity stares at me. "Do I?" says he.

"Say!" Then he leads me over between the 'phone booth and the cigar
stand, flashes an assignment pad, and remarks, "Gaze on that second
item, my boy."

"Woof! That's him, all right," says I. "But what's a bouillabaisse
tea?"

"Heaven and Virgil Bunn only know," says Whity. "But that doesn't
matter. Think of the subtle irony of Fate that sends me up to make a
column story out of Virgie Bunn! Me, of all persons!"

"Well, why not you?" says I.

"Why?" says Whity. "Because I made the fellow. He--why, he is my
joke, the biggest scream I ever put over--my joke, understand? And now
this adumbrated ass of a Quigley, who's been sent on here from St.
Louis to take the city desk, he falls for Virgie as a genuine
personage. Not only that, but picks me out to cover this phony tea of
his. And the stinging part is, if I don't I get canned, that's all."