"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 left to give the coroner an excuse to look solemn." "I thought Stale used to write books," Bunch put in. "He thought so, too, but the public passed him the ice pitcher," I said. "He started in to be a successful author and then he bit his tongue." "He'll get after you good and hard if he hears you talking this way," Bunch admonished. "Say! Bunch! he's been after me for five years and he hasn't caught up with me yet. Every time he's had a chance he's tossed a few sneers in my direction, so I made up my mind the other day I'd coax him down to the foundry and throw the anvil at him. If ever I do cut loose on that Birmingham gent he'll think he has swallowed one of his own harpoons. He's a case of Perpetual Grouch because it gets the dough for him on pay-day. "If somebody ever steals his hammer he'll be doing hotfoots for the handout thing and he'll eat about once a week. "It's a brave and glorious spectacle, isn't it, Bunch, to watch this mouldy writer, with a big newspaper behind him and columns of space at his command, throwing his hooks into actors and actresses who haven't a chance on earth to get back." "I'd hate to have to make my living by trying to drag the bread and butter away from other people," Bunch butted in. "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,