The devil you say. The Devil You Say, by Charles Beaumont.

It was 2 o'clock in the morning, when I decided that my attendance at the meeting of the

International Newspaperman Society for the prevention of thirst

was a matter of moral necessity. This noble brotherhood, steeped in tradition, and by now as immortal

as the institution of the public press, has always been a haven, a refuge, and an inspiration to weary souls

in the newspaper profession. Its gatherings at Ada's bar and grill, open 24 hours a day,

have made more than a few dismiss their woes for a while.

I had just covered a terrifically drabbed story which depended nine-tenths upon the typewriter for its effect, and both brain and throes had grown quite dry in consequence.

The extra block and a half over to Waders was a completely natural detour.

As usual at this time of day, the only customers were newspaper men.

Joe Barnes of the Herald was there, also Marv Kepner and Frank Monteverdi of the Express.

Warren Jackson, the Globe's drama critic, sat music Marv Kepner and Frank Monteverdi of the Express.

Warren Jackson, the Globe's drama critic, sat musing over a cigar,

and Max Sargent, who got paid for being the new sportsman,

seemed to be fascinated by improvising multiple beer rings on the tablecloth.

The only one I was surprised to see was Dick Lewis, a featured columnist for the Express, who'd lately hit the syndicates.

He usually didn't stop in to aid us more than two or three times a month, and he never

added much to the conversation.

Not that he wasn't likable, as a matter of fact, Dick always puts a certain colour into

the get-togethers by reason of being such a clam.

It gave him a secretive or mystery man appearance, and that's always stimulating to gab-fests, which

occasionally verged towards the monotonous.

...