'It's a clumsy ending and vile journalese, but it's quite true.

And yet,'-- he sprang to his feet and snatched at the manuscript,--'you scarred, deboshed, battered old gladiator! you're sent out when a war begins, to minister to the blind, brutal, British public's bestial thirst for blood.

They have no arenas now, but they must have special correspondents.

You're a fat gladiator who comes up through a trap-door and talks of what he's seen.
You stand on precisely the same level as an energetic bishop, an affable actress, a devastating cyclone, or--mine own sweet self.

And you presume to lecture me about my work! Nilghai, if it were worth while I'd caricature you in four papers!' The Nilghai winced.