Hoping I’ve taken his meaning wrong, I ask straight out just what’s to prevent me from relating the terrible saga of Libby Hatch, if I so desire. Much to my disappointment, Mr. Moore answers that I haven’t got the education and I haven’t got the training. “What do you think?” he says, his stock of injured pride still not tapped out, “that writing a book’s like doing up a sales receipt? That there’s nothing more to the author’s craft than there is to peddling tobacco?”

At this point, I become a little less amused by the inebriate next to me; but I’m going to give him one last chance.

“Are you forgetting,” I ask quietly, “that Doctor Kreizler himself saw to my education after I went to live with him?”

“A few years of informal training,” huffs Mr. Editorial Page. “Nothing to compare to a Harvard education.”

“Well, you just catch me where I go wrong,” I shoot back, “but a Harvard education hasn’t done much to get your little manuscript out to the world.” His eyes go narrow at that. “Of course,” I continue, rubbing the salt in, “I’ve never taken to liquor, which seems to be the main requirement for gentlemen in your trade. But other than that, I figure I measure up okay against you scribblers.”

That last word gets some emphasis, being an insult my companion is particularly sensitive to. But I don’t overplay it. It’s a remark designed not so much to pierce as to sung, and it succeeds: Mr. Moore doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and when he does open his mouth again, I know it’s going to be something to equal or outdo my slap. Like two dogs in a pit down in my old neighborhood, we’ve barked and nipped and sized each other up enough-it’s time to go for an ear.

“The cowardice and stupidity of New York publishers and the American reading public have nothing to do with any lack of ability on my part in telling the tale,” Mr. Moore seethes firmly. “And when the day comes that I can learn something about writing, about Kreizler’s work, or, for that matter, about anything other than tobacco leaves from you, Taggert, I’ll be happy to put on an apron and work your counter for one solid week!”