I had expected to find that Comrade Wolmann's
purposeful buffs had completely closed your star-likes."
"Sure, I never felt them. He's a good quick boy, is Al., but,"
continued the Kid with powerful imagery, "he couldn't hit a hole in
a block of ice-cream, not if he was to use a hammer."
"And yet at one period in the proceedings, Comrade Brady," said
Psmith, "I fancied that your head would come unglued at the neck.
But the fear was merely transient. When you began to administer
those--am I correct in saying?--half-scissor hooks to the body,
why, then I felt like some watcher of the skies when a new planet
swims into his ken; or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes he
stared at the Pacific."
The Kid blinked.
"How's that?" he inquired.
"And why did I feel like that, Comrade Brady? I will tell you.
Because my faith in you was justified. Because there before me
stood the ideal fighting-editor of _Cosy Moments_. It is not a post
that any weakling can fill. There charm of manner cannot qualify a
man for the position. No one can hold down the job simply by having
a kind heart or being good at farmyard imitations. No. We want a
man of thews and sinews, a man who would rather be hit on the head
with a half-brick than not. And you, Comrade Brady, are such a
man."
The Kid turned appealingly to Billy.
"Say, this gets past me, Mr.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113