Mr. Droyd confessed himself totally at a loss in the face of the present emergency. He suffered dumbly for some time a monologue delivered by K.C. on the theme of his "K.C.'s unmitigated foolishness in trusting Mr. Droyd out of his sight with more than cigarette money on his person; in the course of which harangue. It transpired that the two had joined forces on the Pacific Coast, subsequent to some unnamed exploit on the part of Mr. Droyd for which he was "wanted by the bulls," and had journeyed to New York with the single-minded purpose of "trimming" the metropolis "to the queen's taste." Whereas, thanks to Mr. Droyd's weaknesses, it seemed that the city alone had wielded the shears, curtailing their joint capital to the vanishing point.
Ah, shut up Mr. Droyd, interrupted at length. "I can't think on account of this headache instead of standing there and running here, why don't you suggest something?"
"I would," averred K.C. darkly, "only I do. I think you got the cer to go through with it."
"Lucky hell! Could you never thought up mumbled?"
"Like hell! Could you never think up?"
"Look out here?"
He thrust into the hands of Mr. Droyd a paper, so folded that  There were formerly displayed what has come to be affirmed a "feature story." Mr. Brooks found it with a jaundiced eye. The memory of this two photographs reproduced... 