But he did it maladroitly by expressing the
hope that things were going well with Mr. West.
"Well, not hardly," said West, and gave his pleasant laugh. "You may
possibly have noticed from our esteemed afternoon contemporary that I'm
in a very pretty little pickle. But by the way," he added, with entire
good humor, "the _Post_ doesn't appear to have noticed it after all."
"No," said Queed, slowly, not pretending to misunderstand. He hesitated,
a rare thing with him. "The fact is I could not write what you would
naturally wish to have written, and therefore I haven't written anything
at all."
West threw up his hands in mock horror. "Here's another one! Come on,
fellers! Kick him!--he's got no friends! You know," he laughed, "I
remind myself of the man who stuck his head in at the teller's window,
wanting to have a check cashed. The teller didn't know him from Adam.
'Have you any friends here in the city?' asked he. 'Lord, no!' said the
stranger; 'I'm the weather man.'"
Queed smiled.
"And I was only trying in my poor way," said West, mournfully, "to
follow the advice that you, young man, roared at me for a column on the
fatal morning.
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