ote it,
and any butcher, grocer, tailor or the like who figures on 'em settlin'
the old account has no right to be in business. The only time a
four-flusher pays off is when he hits a new town. Then, if the
attendance is good, he'll buy four or five evenin' papers right out
loud in front of everybody, carelessly displayin' a couple of yellow
bills that might be fifties--if they wasn't tens. After that outburst,
all he spends is the week end.

For the benefit of them which live in towns where the total vote for
President sounds like the score of a world series game, I'll explain
what a four-flusher is, although they probably got one in their midst,
at that. You'll generally find _one_ wherever there's two people--men
or women. A four-flusher is a guy who claims he can lick Jack Dempsey
in a loud and annoyin' voice, and then runs seven blocks in five
minutes flat when some hick in the back room arises to remark that he's
willin' to take a beatin' for Jack. A four-flusher is the bird that
breezes down Main street in a set of scenery that would make John Drew
look like one of the boys in the gas main trenches somewheres in
Broadway, and yet couldn't purchase an eraser, if rubber was sellin' at
three cents a ton. A four-flusher is a hick that admits bein' a better
singer than Caruso, a better ball-player than Ty Cobb, a better real
estate judge than Columbus and more of a chance taker than Napoleon.

The first time he starts at any one of them things, he's a odds-on
favorite for last and finishes ten lengths behind the rest of the
field. That's a four-flusher.

A guy can be taught paintin', pinochle, politics and prohibition, but a
first-class four-flusher is _born_ that way!

Takin' 'em as a league, I'm about as fond of them guys as a worm is of
a fisherman. The only one I ever fell for was J. Harold Cuthbert, and
that bird had somethin' that the others didn't--he was different! I
thought I had seen 'em all, but this guy crossed me, his stuff was new!

The way I met Harold was almost romantic. He was reclinin' on the
ground in a careless manner about ten feet away from the main entrance
to Film City, and he looked like the loser in a battle royal where the
weapons used had been picked out by a guy who hoped there'd be no
survivors. He was gazin' up at what the natives insist is a better
grade of sky than anything we got in the East, and he looked like he
was tryin' to figure whether they was right or not.