Come and Go Mad

He had known it, somehow, when he had awakened that morning. I to knew it more surely now, staring out of the editorial room window into the early afternoon sunlight slanting down among the buildings to cast a pattern of light and shadow. He knew that soon, perhaps even today, something important was going to happen. Whether good or bad he did not know, but he darkly suspected. And with reason; there are few good things that may unexpectedly happen to a man, things, that is, of lasting importance. Disaster can strike from innumerable directions, in amazingly diverse ways.
A voice said, “Hey, Mr. Vine,” and he turned away from the window, slowly. That in itself was strange for it was not his manner to move slowly; he was a small, volatile man, almost cat-like in the quickness of his reactions and his movements.
But this time something made him turn slowly from the window, almost as though he never again expected to see that chiaroscuro of an early afternoon.
He said, “Hi, Red.”
The freckled copy boy said, “His Nibs wants to see ya.”
“Now?”
“Naw. Atcher convenience. Sometime next week, maybe. If yer busy, give him an apperntment.” He put his fist against Red’s chin and shoved, and the copy boy staggerd back in assumed distress.
He got up out of his chair and went over to the water cooler. He pressed his thumb on the button and water gurgled into the paper cup.
Harry Wheeler sauntered over and said, “Hiya, Nappy. What’s up? Going on the carpet?”
He said, “Sure, for a raise.”
He drank and crumpled the cup, tossing it into the waste basket. He went over to the door marked Private and went through it.
Walter J. Candler, the managing editor, looked up from the work on his desk and said affably, “Sit down, Vine. Be with you in a moment,” and then looked down again.