Seeing Sam they stopped, looking at him uncertainly, and at the man at
work at the desk.
"Well, speak up. This is no ladies' reception room. What do you fellows
want?" snapped The Skipper, glaring at them.
Frank, coming forward, laid a typewritten sheet on the desk, which the
newspaper man read hurriedly.
"Will you use it?" asked Frank.
The Skipper laughed.
"Wouldn't change a word of it," he shouted. "Sure I'll use it. It's what I
wanted to make my point. You fellows watch me."
Frank and Harrigan went out and The Skipper, rushing to the door, began
yelling into the room beyond.
"Hey, you Shorty and Tom, I've got that last lead."
Coming back to his desk he began writing again, grinning as he worked. To
Sam he handed the typewritten sheet prepared by Frank.
"Dastardly attempt to win the cause of the working girls by dirty scab
leaders and butter-fingered capitalist class," it began, and after this
followed a wild jumble of words, words without meaning, sentences without
point in which Sam was called a mealy-mouthed mail-order musser and The
Skipper was mentioned incidentally as a pusillanimous ink slinger.
"I'll run the stuff and comment on it," declared The Skipper, handing Sam
what he had written.
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