Of all the followers of Ring W. Lardner, concoctors of colloquial slang and slapstick humor, there is no finer exemplar than H. C. Witwer. Witwer writes with a steady, unabated dash; his humor is so obvious that one wonders wanly long after why it induced a smile; when he is pathetic, which is very seldom, it is pathos of the good old ten, twent', thirt' variety.
rough the mob, we saw that he was shakin' his fist at 'em and bawlin' 'em out.
"Are you Mr. Genaro?" I asks him.
"Joosta wait, joosta wait!" he hollers over his shoulder without even lookin' around. "I'm a ver' busy joosta now! Writa me the letta!"
"Where d'ye get that stuff?" I yells back, gettin' sore. "D'ye know who we are?"
I seen the rest of them gigglin', and Genaro dances around and throws up his hands.
"Aha!" he screams, pullin' at his hair. "You maka me crazy! What's a mat--what you want? Queek, don't make me wait!"
The Kid growls at him and whispers in my ear,
"Will I bounce him?"
"Not yet!" I tells him. "I'm Mr. Green," I says to Genaro, "and this is Kid Scanlan, welterweight champion of the world, and if you pull any more of that joosta wait stuff, you'll be able to say you fought him!"
He drops his hands and smiles.
"Excuse, please!" he says. "I maka mistake!" he grabs hold of his head again and groans, "Gotta bunch bonehead he