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Updated: May 13, 2025
"Do you remember writing a par about Stickney, the butter-scotch man, you know, ragging him when he got his peerage?" "Yes." It was one of the best paragraphs I had ever done. A two-line thing, full of point and sting. I had been editing "On Your Way" that day, Fermin being on a holiday and Gresham ill; and I had put the paragraph conspicuously at the top of the column.
"What's he think this is, the First Century Pre-Atomic? Aren't there any lifters on the ship?" Llewellyn shrugged. "Probably didn't want to bother taking a couple of steps to get one. The doctor told him to take treatment and observation for a day or so." "That's Al Devis?" I asked. "What hospital?" Al Devis's strained back would be good for a two-line item; he'd feel hurt if we didn't mention it.
If it had been a great inventor, a poet, an artist, there would have been nothing more than a two-line paragraph. But an opera-singer, one who entertains us during our idle evenings ha! that's a different matter. Set instantly that great municipal machinery called the police in action; sell extra editions on the streets. What ado!" "What the devil makes you so bitter?" "Was I bitter?
All the rest is mere picturesque amplification, on a par with the 'Full and descriptive report from our Special Correspondent, elaborated out of a three-line telegram of Reuter's." "Following that argument," said the Minor Poet, "you could reduce 'Romeo and Juliet' to a two-line tragedy Lass and lad, loved like mad; Silly muddle, very sad."
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