James Harrison raised his hands in a nonchalant gesture and stared at the derringer aimed toward his groin. He shrugged. “What’s the problem, sir? I assure you, I haven’t touched your wife.”

The man in the too-tight suit slammed a newspaper on the desk. “Your editorial. That’s the problem.”

James reached for the paper.

“Get your hands back in the air.” The man squared his jaw.

“As you wish.” James smiled until his teeth reflected the sunlight streaming through the window. The memory of his potential assailant was quite vivid and fresh. Bollocks! It’s Gideon from the train. I wonder if I can reach the Remington in my desk drawer.

“Don’t give me that ingratiating smile. I’ve heard about how charming you think you are, and it won’t work with me.”

“Do you really have the nerve to squeeze that trigger?”

“Try me.” He pulled back the hammer. “How could you publish such trash?”

James tossed his head slightly to dislodge the shock of dark sandy hair from his forehead. He glanced at the front page. “Ah, yesterday’s paper. Trash? Surely you aren’t offended by the truth.”

The editor’s placating voice had not calmed Gideon one whit. “It doesn’t belong in a newspaper. You might think you’re some highfalutin’ editor, but I know what you’re trying to do. And I won’t allow it. I demand a written apology.”

“I don’t understand.” James’s dimples grew deeper.

Gideon was startled by the sound of a Model T Ford backfiring in the street, and he almost dropped the gun. James wasn’t fast enough to seize it. I’m out of practice. That wouldn’t have happened ten years ago.

“Back in the air. Now!” Gideon’s trembling left hand unfolded the paper. He read the editorial in a slow monotone.

“I recently met a man while I was boarding the train to Lisetville. He butted into line, assaulted the conductor with asinine comments, and committed numerous assorted acts that irritated the other passengers who were assembled in the car.

“I assure you, dear reader, that I refuse to call this buttinski an ‘ass’, because it would be an affront to the gentle animal who bears that name. But if you use your imagination, I refer you to another word veiled in this editorial: a word that describes this corpulent beast who asserted his vile personality on those of us who were unfortunate enough to ride the rails with him.

“In the words of our President, ‘Courtesy is as much a mark of a gentleman as courage.’ I salute you, Mr. Roosevelt, for such astute advice. If only this boorish bully had heeded your counsel.”

James smothered a laugh. “I assure you that I could have been more direct and called you a ‘butt’ or an ‘ass’. Your behavior was reprehensible.”

“What are you talking about?” Gideon examined the editorial again.

Slowly his neck and face turned red. A vein pulsed in his temple as he clenched his teeth. “I wasn’t referring to those double-entendres. In fact, I didn’t notice the hidden message until you so kindly brought it to my attention.”

“Then why are you so upset?”

“Nobody calls me ‘fat’. Start typing. And apologize for everything, not just the comment about my weight.”

—

Gideon picked up The Sargent Report the following week, opened it to the editorial section, and sighed. “That’s not what I watched him type.”

“To the beefy bear on the train: I apologize.”

© Copyright Kathy Steinemann

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