human
Know that man?
gpt
I don't either, says Atterbury, wiping off his head;
human
What did he want?
gpt
Information, says our president.
human
Said he was thinking of buying some stock. He asked me about nine hundred questions, and every one of 'em hit some sore place in the business. I know he's on a paper. You can't fool me. You see a man about half shabby, with an eye like a gimlet, smoking cut plug, with dandruff on his coat collar, and knowing more than J. P. Morgan and Shakespeare put together--if that ain't a reporter I never saw one. I was afraid of this. I don't mind detectives and post-office inspectors--I talk to 'em eight minutes and then sell 'em stock--but them reporters take the starch out of my collar. Boys, I recommend that we declare a dividend and fade away. The signs point that way.