The Front Page Page #4

with the

Angel of Death beside him

and you crackin' jokes.

It's a wonder a bolt

of lightning don't come

through the ceiling

and strike you all dead.

That's enough of that.

Just go cry somewhere else.

Yeah, Mollie,

get your keister out of here.

This is the pressroom.

I'm $4 behind.

Come on, let's go.

Let go of me.

Shut up! Come on.

Hey, lady,

I'm on your side.

You liars.

Beat it, you tramp.

You hoodlums.

Gentlemen of the press?

Hey, Mollie, what do you know?

What do you say?

Oh, get lost.

You're like all the rest of them bums.

# Is that a break now

Am I awake now? #

# or am I dreaming? ##

Jennie, old girl, did anybody ever tell

you you've got a terrific behind?

Not lately.

Well, a thing of beauty

is a joy forever.

Cut the blarney,

Mr. Johnson. What do you want now?

I could use some ice,

some club soda,

maybe a couple of bottles

of ginger ale.

Coming up.

Right.

King, seven, five,

three, seven,

nine, six, five,

and a 10. Bet the king.

All right, you guys,

on your feet and reach for the ceiling.

This joint's raided, see?

Hey, Hildy.

What's all this we hear?

Is it on the level?

You really quitting?

Get a load of that outfit.

What the well-dressed

bridegroom will wear.

Nobody moves to Philadelphia for

Christ's sake! Say it isn't so, Hildy.

It's all true, fellows.

Two tickets to Philly,

and two wedding hoops. 18 carats.

You're looking at

Hildebrand Johnson, Esq.,

care of Waterbury and Adams,

Advertising and

Public Relations, Philadelphia, PA.

No sh*t.

Nobody but fairies

goes into advertising.

Sour grapes.

How did Burns

take the news?

That conniving son...

You know what he tried...

Ah, the hell with it.

Get some paper cups.

Hey, look at the hooch.

It's the real stuff.

Just my farewell

to the troops.

Hildy, baby, when you go,

you go first class.

It's worth it. I'll never have to look

at your ugly mugs again.

Let's get rid of

some of this crap.

Yeah. It's about time.

Mr. Johnson?

Huh?

You probably

don't remember me,

but we once met

in the men's room.

The men's room? Where?

At the Examiner.

I'm Rudy Keppler,

Mr. Duffy sent me to take over for you.

Is that so?

And what were you doing before this?

Oh, a little bit of everything.

Social notes,

book reviews,

covered a couple of fires.

But this is

my first hanging.

Yeah. It's okay, kid.

It's Williams'

first hanging, too.

I snitched the ice

from the morgue.

Over here.

What will you have,

Jennie?

Uh, maybe

a little straight gin.

Careful.

You're getting the cards wet.

It's about time

somebody washed them.

I could go for

some ginger ale.

Hey, slick,

join us.

Rock & Rye, please.

Here you are, kid.

Well, Hildy,

here's to you.

You lucky bastard.

Godspeed, Hildy.

And may the wind at your back

never be your own.

All right. Ahem.

You sentimental slobs, before

everybody gets falling down drunk,

I got a few markers here.

McHugh, you owe me $5.

I'll give it to you

tomorrow.

I won't be here.

I'll send it to you.

I'll bet it gets lost

in the mail.

No bet.

Schwartz, $6.75.

For what?

For being a lousy poker player.

That's for what's.

Hildy, about that $30.

You'll have to wait,

it wasn't just my kid taking sick,

my old lady isn't--

What $30?

Forget it.

I might've known I couldn't collect

from you deadbeats, anyway.

Big time Charlie, huh?

How much

they payin' you?

Oh, you wouldn't

want to know.

It'd just make you

green with envy.

Are you gonna have

one of those offices

with a rug on the floor,

and the stenographer on your lap?

Oh, my wife

won't go for that.

Bet you get Saturdays

and Sundays off.

And Christmas.

You're gonna join the Country Club,

golf and Mah Jongg,

silk pajamas with a monogram

right across your chest...

Hold it.

Now, look who's talking. Journalists.

Bunch of crazy buttinskies

with dandruff

on their shoulders

and holes in their pants.

Peeking through keyholes, waking people

up in the middle of the night

to ask them what they think

about Aimee Semple McPherson.

Stealing pictures

off old ladies

of their daughters

that get raped in Oak Park.

And for what?

So a million shop girls

and motormen's wives

can get their jollies.

And the next day,

somebody wraps

the front page

around a dead mackerel.

Don't knock it, Hildy.

How long do you think

you'll last on that fancy job?

Yeah, six months from now

you may be out on your ass.

Never happen. You know why?

Because, my girl's uncle,

he owns that advertising agency.

Now, tie that.

What do you know?

Our Hildy going into

the nephew business.

A gigolo.

Where's your pride,

your integrity?

What's the newspaper business

ever done for me?

See, I don't want to end up

like you guys will,

on a copy desk.

Gray-haired, humpbacked,

half blind,

bummin' cigarettes

from office boys.

I think I'll have

a little more gin.

Uh, what's the idea,

fellas?

You know better than that.

This is a government building.

Ah, hi, Sheriff.

What'll you have?

I've got a good mind

to have you all locked up.

The state's attorney

wouldn't like it

because I bought that stuff

from his brother.

If you gentlemen

need more ice...

Here are your tickets

for the hanging.

Tribune.

Journal of Commerce.

Post.

Only two?

I promised a couple of the guys

in the Circulation Department.

What do you think we're putting on here,

the World Series?

Daily News. Examiner.

Here you are, Rudy.

The new man.

Oh, what happened?

They finally fire you?

I'm retiring to my country estate

outside Philadelphia.

Well, in that case

I will have a drink.

No, you won't.

Not my liquor.

What should I do

with the second ticket?

Sell it to a scalper

like the Sheriff does.

I've had it

with you, Johnson.

When I think of

all that malarkey

you and Walter Burns

printed about me,

full of hearsay, innuendo,

and character assassination--

What do you mean?

Don't we always refer

to you as

"Honest" Pete Hartman?

Oh, yeah. And what about those things

you always put around "Honest"?

Journal.

Why can't you move

the hanging from 7:00 to 5:00

so we can make

the city edition?

Oh, come on, Murph.

You can't hang a fella in his sleep

just to please

the newspapers.

It ain't nice.

No.

But you can

reprieve him twice,

so that the hanging comes

just before the election. Huh?

With you and the Mayor running

on a law and order ticket.

That is nice.

I had nothin' to do with it.

That was the Governor.

What if there's

another reprieve?

No chance.

Suppose this Dr. Eggelhofer

finds out Williams is insane?

Come on, boys, you know

that's just a formality

to shut up those

pinko troublemakers.

He's gonna examine him

in my office in a few minutes.

But I can tell you right now,

Williams is as sane as I am.

Saner.

Oh, c-come on, fellas.

He shot that cop as part

of a Bolshevik-anarchist conspiracy

to subvert our

democratic institution.

Baloney.

Williams isn't a Red

and you know it.

He's just a screwball

who had the lousy luck

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