"Ain't he the goods, then?" says I. "What about this sculptor poet
business?"

"Bunk," says Whity, "nothing but bunk. Of course, he does putter
around with modeling clay a bit, and writes the sort of club-footed
verse they put in high school monthlies."

"Gets it printed in a book, though," says I. "I've seen one."

"Why not?" says Whity. "Anyone can who has the three hundred to pay
for plates and binding. 'Sonnets of the City,' wasn't it? Didn't I
get my commission from the Easy Mark Press for steering him in? Why, I
even scratched off some of those things to help him pad out the book
with. But, say, Torchy, you ought to remember him. You were on the
door then,--tall, wide-shouldered freak, with aureole hair, and a close
cropped Vandyke?"

"Not the one who wore the Wild West lid and talked like he had a
mouthful of hot oatmeal?" says I.

"Your description of Virgie's English accent is perfect," says Whity.

"Well, well!" says I. "The mushbag, we used to call him."

"Charmingly accurate again!" says Whity. "Verily beside him the
quivering jellyfish of the salt sea was as the armored armadillo of the
desert. Soft? You could poke a finger through him anywhere."

"But what was his game?" says I.