BRUNO AND THE BLACK SHEEP “TELL HIM from me,” Bruno shouted to Emmett through the door of his living-room which had turned overnight into Filing Cabinet headquarters, “that his stuff is sure-fire sale and sure-fire manure and we’re not having any in our stable. Tell him to shovel it under someone else’s door and get to hell out of our way—we’re busy; we’re a man of action, a man of Magazine. Besides we’ve got to meet a boat next Saturday.” (He drew a deep and happy breath of memory.) He turned complacently to the Six Black Sheep squatting on window sills and tables, like a young army too restless to take to chairs, their bright undergraduate sweaters like scattered parts of a flag at rest; and met the ultra-critical eye of their lean and un dernourished Chairman as he sat swinging his feet against Bruno’s grand piano. “Nothing,” Bruno added, chiefly to irritate young Firman, “stinks quite like a bad writer. Unless it’s the slightly foetid odor of a bad writer gone phony propagan dist.
