artist, hey? Don't make me laugh! Go up there and tell 'em you're a professional idiot and they'll all believe you without question!"
Then I throwed the phone book at this clown, but unfortunately it missed him. In the ring, anybody can hit him with anything.
Kid Roberts laughs his head off for a minute, and then he looks at Ptomaine very thoughtful. "Ptomaine," he says, "your scheme is just crazy enough to attract me in the mood I'm in now. As Joe would say, I'm pretty low and anything that promises even momentary diversion—that will allow me to get my mind off myself and my worries—appeals to me. We shall go up to the Catskills in exactly the manner you suggest!"
And that's just what we done.
We was positively somethin' for the comic supplement when we checked into Hermit Inn a brace of days later. Should you of saw us you'd of laughed yourself into the hystericals, no foolin'! Kid Roberts, the "poet," packs a suit case full of limericks by bozos entitled Shelley, Keats, Burns, Browning, Kipling, and whatnot. He features a flowin' black tie, long hair, and tortoise-shell cheaters, and he acts so timid and shy that a rabbit would of reared up and smacked him in the pan, just to be nasty. Me and Ptomaine, "playwright" and "artist," is likewise dressed like a couple of cake eaters and we're all set to do some actin' which would of made Edwin Booth cut his throat!
We register as Launcelot Eversley (Kid Roberts),
