"You wouldn't ruin the landscape here, would you?" I asked.
"Ruin it!" repeated Frisby nervously. "It's ruined now; there ain't a place to stick a bill."
"The snipe stick bills—in the sand," I said flippantly.
There was no humour about Frisby. "Do they?" he asked.
I moved with a certain impatience.
"Bills," said Frisby, "give spice an variety to Nature. They break the monotony of the everlastin green and what-you-may-call-its."
I glared at him.
"Bills," he continued, "are not easy to stick, lemme tell you, sir. Sign paintin's a soft snap when it comes to bill-stickin'. Now, I guess I've stuck more bills in New York State than ennybody."
"Have you?" I said angrily.
"Yes, siree! I always pick out the purtiest spots—kinder filled chuck full of woods and brooks and things; then I h'ist my paste-pot onto a rock, and I slather that rock with gum, and whoop she goes!"
"Whoop what goes?"
"The bill. I paste her onto the rock, with one swipe of the brush for the edges and a back-handed swipe for the finish—except when a bill is folded in two halves."
