“How could we when you hog the paper the minute it comes out?” inquired Ted Hinckley sarcastically. He had sent in a poem the day before and for ten minutes or so had been waiting with ill-concealed impatience to see whether it had found favor with the editors. “Well, what is it?” he went on impatiently. “Why don’t you get it off your chest? What kind of bull has he been throwing now?”