Those mocking, silent, uniformed men inside are bound to the wails and furniture with red tape, yards and yards of it, their sole function being to pass the buck from one to the other in an everlasting and eternal circle of incompetence.

Take the case of our keen reporter who had received from a benevolent chief a cutting pertaining to a fatal car accident. Bubbling with enthusiasm our reporter stuffs reams and reams of copy paper into his hip pocket and tootles off to the station.

Bursting into the office, be brushes aside a fat policeman asleep in the doorway and, stemming his rush momentarily to see that the cop had fallen, fortunately on his head (he was okay), assumes the traditional stance.

This is done with the precision of a squad presenting arms, one-two-three, legs wide apart and firmly planted, body braced against an imaginary gale. One-two-three right hand to pencil, left hand to copy paper, which is whipped out and held a yard in front of face, pencil poised a foot away.