Nothing Sacred

1

Ladies and gentlemen!

When the Morning Star

summoned you to this banquet

I realized that there were

only two people qualified

to introduce the great man

we are honoring tonight.

Either my humble self or that

pearl among journalists

Mr. Wallace Cook, my great

friend and star reporter.

You said it.

I want Mr. Cook himself to tell

you the great feat he performed

not only for the Morning Star,

but for mankind itself

in interesting our guest of

honor in this great project.

Twenty-seven halls of

learning and culture!

Twenty-seven arenas of art!

To be known as the

Morning Star Temple.

And for every dollar we contribute, our

guest has pledged himself to give ten.

Ladies and gentlemen, it is my

great honor to introduce to you

A prince with a heart as

big as his pocketbook

that fabulous and magnificent

potentate of the Orient

the Sultan of Marzipan.

Peace be unto you, my friends.

Peace and the blessings of culture.

That's him.

That's my husband.

Well, my fine

Oriental potentate

I'm not going to have you arrested.

I'm going to put you on the payroll

as a janitor!

Thank you, sir.

And I always want you

present in the local room

Where my reporters and Mr. Wallace

Cook can drink you in constantly

As a warning against fakes!

Yeah, sir.

May I ask, ain't Mr.

Cook a reporter anymore?

I wouldn't like for him to lose his job.

He was very nice to me.

Mr. Cook is not going to be

discharged, Your Majesty.

For his own good and the

good of the Morning Star

I am going to remove him

from the land of the living!

Listen, Oliver, I tell

you I'm innocent.

I was just as fooled by old

black Joe as you were.

I believed everything he

said just as you did.

Now, Oliver.

Either you cut out these fat-headed monkeyshines

of yours and let bygones be bygones

or I'm walking out of this

fish trap right here and now.

You're under contract with the

Star for five more years.

You're not in a position to resign

unless you wish to retire from

journalistic efforts over that period.

Oliver, you're not gonna keep me

pounding out obituaries for five years?

Those are my plans, Mr. Cook.

That's gratitude.

I'm the best reporter you ever had.

I've handed you a hundred scoops.

It isn't fair, Oliver.

It isn't human.

Shut up!

Oliver, I... I don't like

to say this, but...

The paper is going to rack and ruin with

me hidden away in that water cooler.

- Look at this.

- What's that?

Poor little working girl doomed

to death from radium poisoning.

- We've covered it.

- Covered it?

You're getting old, Oliver.

Look, there's 1, 2, 3, 4,

5, 6 lines on Hazel Flagg.

A poor little kid with a few

months to live at the outside.

Doomed. Death staring

her in the face.

What does she feel?

What does she think?

- Radium eating away her bones!

- Don't shout at me!

Listen, Oliver, there's a story in this

kid that ought to tear your heart out.

Where is it? Why hasn't the Star got it?

I'll tell you.

Because I'm stuck away in the water cooler

on account of some whim of yours.

Listen, Oliver, give

me a chance, will you?

So help me may I drop

dead or redeem myself.

- I oughta be shot for what I'm thinking.

- What are you thinking?

I'm thinking that maybe you ain't the

most tittering imbecile on Earth.

I'm thinking that maybe

you've learned your lesson.

Oliver, so help me. I'll

be in Vermont by morning.

I'll dig you up a story that'll make

this town swoon. Here's my hand on it.

I've been through an inferno.

I haven't been able to enter a

caf for the past three weeks

without the band playing "Dixie".

- Oh well, that was a coincidence.

- I've given you my hand, go on...

- Redeem yourself.

- Thanks. You won't regret it.

If I don't come back with the

biggest story you ever handled

you can put me back in short

pants and make me marble editor.

- You through?

- Yep.

- You know this girl, Hazel Flagg?

- Yep.

- Pretty girl, eh?

- Yep.

- Where is she now? In the hospital?

- Nope.

Just walking around, eh? Laughing

and carrying on, I suppose.

Yep.

- What's your name, Coolidge?

- Nope.

Well, if you aren't worn

out talking, what is it?

Bull.

Mr. Bull, my name's Cook.

I'm from the New York Star.

I'm, uh, going to be filing a lot of

stuff with your telegraph office here.

- I don't think you are.

- Well, who says?

The Paragon Watch Factory owns this town.

They don't care to have any scandal printed.

What they say goes.

Better take the next train back.

- What kind of a fellow is this Dr. Downer?

- He won't talk to you.

Nobody talkin' in this town.

Except me. Better go home.

Well, if you don't mind I'll take a little

stroll and have a look at the sights first.

Well, I wouldn't have talked at all if

I knew I was gonna do it for nothin'.

Oh, pardon me.

I forgot I was in Vermont.

All right.

Morning, sister.

- You in charge here?

- Yep.

I've been wandering through your

fascinating metropolis for an hour.

- Mind if I sit down here?

- Yep.

- I guess you misunderstood me.

- Nope.

- You know Hazel Flagg?

- Yep.

Any idea where I could

find her this morning?

You're a newspaperman from New York.

- How did you guess that, sister?

- You was described to me.

Will Bull can shoot his mouth

off to all he wants, but not me

nor anybody else in this town.

This drugstore's run by the

Paragon Watch Company

and they don't want any scandalmonger

New Yorkers snoopin' around.

- OK, sister. And how much do I owe you?

- Well, you've tooken up my time...

Thank you very much. I'm sorry that

I've tooken up so much of your time.

Sorry.

- Oh. Good morning.

Is Dr. Downer in?

- Yep.

- Is that his office?

- Yep.

Would you tell him Mr. Cook

would like to see him?

Tell him yourself.

- Dr. Downer?

- Yep!

My name's Cook. I'm up

here from New York.

Sit down. I'll be

with you in a minute.

- Nice day... Yep.

- Yep.

- What have you got, young man?

Hives?

No. No hives.

Lotta hives goin' around. Mrs. George

Nasher was took yesterday. Do you know her?

Nope.

- Where did you say you were from?

- New York.

I was wondering if you you could tell

me where I could find Hazel Flagg.

- From New York, eh?

- Yep.

You know what I

think, young fella?

I think you're a newspaperman.

I can smell 'em.

I've always been able to smell 'em.

Excuse me while I open the windows.

I'll tell you briefly what

I think of newspapermen.

The hand of God reaching

down into the mire

Couldn't elevate one of them

to the depths of degradation.

Not by a million miles.

I think you're being a little

severe toward my profession.

- Not much, but just a little.

- Nothing of the sort.

I'm a fair-minded man, young fella, but

when you've been robbed, swindled, cheated

for 22 years out of a fortune, it's

pardonable to formulate an opinion!

- From New York, eh?

- Yep.

You don't happen to know of a

newspaper called the Morning Star?

You have the honor, Dr. Downer,

of addressing that newspaper's

most gifted representative.

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