The Cat Who Saw Red

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Jim Qwilleran slumped in a chair in the Press Club dining room, his six-feet-two telescoped into a picture of dejection and his morose expression intensified by the droop of his oversized mustache.

His depression had nothing to do with the price of mixed drinks, which had gone up ten cents. It had nothing to do with the dismal lightning, or the gloomy wood paneling, or the Monday mustiness that blended Friday's fish and Saturday's beer with the body odor of an old building that had once been the county jail. Qwilleran had been stunned by bad news of a more vital nature.

The prize-winning feature writer of the Daily Fluxion and the newspaper's foremost connoisseur of sixteen-ounce steaks and apple pie a la mode was reading — with horror and dismay — a list printed on a bilious shade of green paper.

Across the table Arch Riker, the Fluxion's feature editor, said: "What's everybody going to eat today? I see they've got potato pancakes on the menu."

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