Indeed, Garry's soberness at that moment was almost woebegone.
"I see, Joe," he answered. "Not a bad idea. May I ask what your
story--your novel is to deal with?"
"Deal with? What do you mean?"
"Why, they always deal with some problem, Joe," Garry squared around.
"They always attack the rottenness of the rich, or sob over the
rottenness of the poor. They always expound the crime of divorce, or
attack the error of matrimony. Now which of----"
"Then I ain't dealing with nothing," stated Joe. "What I'm figurin' on
doing is a regular love story. I thought maybe I'd have a nice young
chap who--who's building a railroad or something, fall in love with a
real nice girl who's the daughter of a fat man who's a crook. I mean
the fat man's the crook, not the daughter. And--and----"
"And then what?" asked Garry Devereau.
Fat Joe, unlike the man outside, did not notice that a new note,
dangerously hard and wickedly edged with ridicule, had replaced the
amusement in Garry's voice. He grew a little more enthusiastic.
"Well, that's as far as I've got, right up to now," he admitted with an
explosive sigh. "But it looks like a good enough beginning, at that.
All I got to do now is run 'em through three or four hundred pages,
with him a-talkin' to her and her a-talkin' at him. All I got to do,
accordin' to all the books I've ever read, is see that it don't all
come too easy for him, and still turns out all right.
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