"You certainly started something here,
Acne and/or Psoriasis."

Humor like his was beneath offense. "My name's Albert Weener."

"Mine's Mustard." He produced a plastic cup and rapidly extracted from
it a series of others in diminishing sizes. "I wouldnt have thought it
to look at you. The dirty deed, I mean--not the exzemical hotdog. O K,
Mister Weener--who's this scientific magnate? Whyre you holding him out
on me?"

"Scientists don't like to be disturbed in their researches," I
temporized.

"No more does a man in a whorehouse," he retorted vulgarly. "Story's no
good without him."

That was what I thought and I'm afraid my satisfaction appeared on my
face.

"Now leely man--no try a hold up da press. Whatsa matter, you aready had
da beer and da roasta bif sanawich?"

"Maybe you better repeat the order. You know in these cheap places they
don't like to have you sit around and talk without spending money."

"Money! Eh, laddie--I'm nae a millionaire." He balanced a full glass of
water thoughtfully upon a knifeblade, looking around for applause. When
it was not forthcoming he meekly followed my suggestion.

"Listen, Gootes," I swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and sipped a little
beer. "I want to help you get your story."

He waved his hand and pulled a handkerchief out of his ear.

"The point is," I commenced, sopping a piece of bread in the thick
gravy, "if I were to betray the confidence involved I couldnt hope to
continue my connection and I'd lose my chances to benefit from this
remarkable discovery."

"Balls," exclaimed Gootes. "Forget the spiel. I'm not a prospect for
your lawn tonic."

I disregarded the interruption. "I'm not a mercenary man and I believe
in enlightening the public to the fullest extent compatible with
decency. I'm willing to make a sacrifice for the general good, yet I--"

"--'must live.' I know, I know. How much?"

"It seems to me fifty dollars would be little enough--"

"Fifty potatoes!" He went through an elaborate pantomime of shock,
horror, indignation, grotesque dismay and a dozen other assorted
emotions. "Little man, youre fruitcake sure. W R wouldnt part with half
a C for a tipoff on the Secondcoming. No, brother--you rang the wrong
bell. Five I might get you--but no more."

I replied firmly I was not in need of charity--ignoring his pointed look
at the remains on my plate--and this was strictly a business
proposition, payment for value received. After some bargaining