“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,

“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 characterizes that book of his—­that deft little dip into degeneracy—­something about a frozen wedding!  Oh, slush!  Percy, pass the cigarettes!”

“There must be a certain class of people who read that kind of criticism,” Bunch said.

“That windy stuff Stale hands out is supposed to be criticism, Bunch, but it isn’t—­it’s typewritten egotism.”