It was just as
bad as I feared. The man had used a type-copier and snowed his
screed all over Fleet Street. There were one or two small leaders,
too, and editorial notes: nasty ones.
I caught Foe on his very doorstep. "Hallo!" said he. "What's wrong?
. . . Looks as if you were suddenly reduced to selling newspapers.
I'm not buying any, my good man."
"You'll come upstairs and read a few, anyway," said I; and took him
upstairs and showed him the _Times_. He frowned as he read Farrell's
letter. I expected him to break out into strong language at least.
But he finished his reading and tossed the paper on to the table with
no more than a short laugh--a rather grim short laugh.
"Silly little bounder," was his comment.
"You didn't treat him quite so apathetically, the night before last,"
said I. "It might be better for you if you had. Look, here's the
_Morning Post, Standard, Daily News, Mail, Chronicle, Express_. . . .
He has plastered it into them all."
"I don't read newspapers," was his answer.
"Other people do," was mine; for I was nettled a bit.
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