4

He found himself, in his turn, looking Mr McGibbon over. The man was just a little seedy. He had a hand up, rubbing the back of his head under the tipped-down straw hat, and Henry noted the shiny black surface of his sleeve. He had a freckled, thinly alert face, a little pinched. His hair was straight and came down raggedly about ears and collar. Behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, small, sharp eyes, very keen, appeared to be darting this way and that, restlessly noting everything within their range of vision.

'Things going well over at the Voice office?' Henry was silent. He couldn't lie. 'Not going so well, eh? That's too bad. Anything special up?'

'No,' said Henry, finding his voice untrustworthy; 'nothing special.'

'What you doing now? Anything much?' Henry shook his head. 'Taking a little walk, perhaps.'

'Why—yes.'

'Mind if I walk along with you?'

'Why—no.'

They fell into step.

'Been thinking a little about you lately. Wondering if you were happy in your work over there.' Henry compressed his lips. 'Did you write the Business Men's Picnic story?' Henry was silent. 'Pretty fair job, I thought.'

'It was terrible!'

'Oh, no—not terrible. You're too hard on yourself.'

'I'm not hard on myself. It's his fault. He spoiled it.'

'Who—Boice? I shouldn't wonder. He could spoil The New York Sun in two days, with just a little rope.'

'He tore it all to pieces. I've got the real story here. I couldn't let you see it, of course.'

McGibbon glanced down at the roll of paper.

'You like to write, don't you?' Henry nodded shortly. 'Boice won't let you do it, I suppose.' Henry shook his head. 'He wouldn't. You know, there isn't really any reason why a country paper shouldn't be interesting. Play to the subscriber, you know. Boice plays to the advertiser and the county printing. Other way takes longer, takes a little more money at first, but once you get your subscriber hooked, the advertiser has to follow. Better for the long game.'

Henry was only half listening. They were crossing the Lake Shore Drive now. They stopped at the railing and looked out over the lake. Henry's thoughts were darting this way and that, searching instinctively for a weak spot in the wall of fate that had closed in on him.

'I've got a little money,' he said.

McGibbon smiled.

'Well, it has its uses.'

'I haven't quite got it. I get the interest. And they'll have to give me all of it in November. The seventh. I'll be twenty-one then.' These words seemed to reassure. Henry. 'Yes; I'll be twenty-one. It's quite a little, too. Over four thousand dollars. It was my mother's.'

'It's not to be sneezed at,' said McGibbon reflectively. 'If I had four thousand right now—or one thousand, for that matter—I could make sure of turning my corner and landing the old Gleaner on Easy Street. I've had a fight with that paper. Been through a few things these eight months. But I'm gaining circulation in chunks now. Six months more, and I'll nail that gang.'

'You know'—McGibbon threw a knee up on the railing and lighted a cigar—'it takes money to make money.'

'Oh, yes—of course,' said Henry.

'A thousand dollars now on the Gleaner would be worth ten thousand ten years from now.' He smoked thoughtfully. 'I've been watching you, Calverly. And if it wasn't so tough on you, I could laugh at old Boice. He's got a jewel in you, and he doesn't know it. I suppose he keeps you grinding—correcting proof, running around——'

'Oh, you've no idea!' Henry burst out. 'Everything! Just an awful grind! And now he expects me to cover all the “Society” and “Church Doings.”'

'What! How's that? Has he come down on Miss Dittenhoefer?'

Henry swallowed convulsively and nodded.

'He's piling it all on me, and I won't stand for it. It ain't right! It 'ain't fair! And you bet your life he's going to hear a few things from me before this day's much older! I'm going to tell him a thing or two!'

'That's right!' said McGibbon. 'He won't respect you any the less for it.'

A silence followed. Henry stood, flushed, breathing hard through set teeth, staring out at the horizon.

'I'm going to tell you something, Calverly. And it's because I feel that you and I are going to be friends. I've known about you, of course. I know you can write. You'd do a lot to make a paper readable. Which is what a paper has got to be. But now I can see that we're going to be friends. You've confided in me. I'm going to confide in you.' He paused, blew out a long, meditative arrow of smoke, then added, 'I know a little about that story you wrote.'

'You do!' McGibbon slowly nodded. 'But how?'

'You must remember, Calverly, that I'm not like these small-town folks around here. I've worked at this game in New York, and I know a thing or two.'

'I've been in New York,' said Henry.

'Great town! But I don't spend my time here in daydreams. I have my lines out all over town. There's mighty little going on that I don't know.'

'You seem to know a lot about Charlie Waterhouse.'

McGibbon smiled like a sphinx, then said:—

'I've nearly got him. Not quite, but nearly.'

'But I don't see how you could know about——'

'I told you I was going to confide in you. It's simple enough. Gert Wombast let her sister read it—the one that works at the library. Swore her to secrecy. And—well, I board at the Wombasts'—Look here, Calverly: you'd better let me read it.'

Henry promptly surrendered it.

McGibbon laid the manuscript on his knee, lighted a fresh cigar, and gazed at the lake. Henry, all nerves, was clasping and unclasping his hands.

'Of course,' he said, 'this ain't really a finished thing, you understand. It's just as I wrote it off—fast, you know—and I haven't had a chance to correct it or——'

McGibbon raised his hand.

'No, Calverly—none of that. This is literature. Of course, old Boice couldn't print it. Never in the world. But it's sweet stuff. It's a perfect, merciless pen-picture of life on Simpson Street. And those two old crooks behind the lemonade stand—you've opened a jack-pot there. If you only knew it, son, that's evidence. Evidence! You walked right into it. Charlie Waterhouse is short in his town accounts. I know that. Boice and Weston are covering up for him. They work up this neat little purse and give it to Charlie. Why? Because he's the most popular man in Sunbury? Rot! Because they're helping him pay back. Making the town help.'

'Oh, do you really think——'

'“Think?” I know. This completes the picture. Tell me—what is Boice paying you?'

'Twelve a week, now.'

'Hm! That's quite a little for a country weekly. I could meet it, though, if—see here: What chance is there of your getting, say, a thousand of your money free and investing in the Gleaner? Now, wait! I want to put this thing before you. It's the turning-point. If we act without delay, we've got 'em. We've got everything. We own the town. Here we are! The Gleaner is just at the edge of success. I take you over from the Voice at the same salary—twelve a week. I'll give you lots of rope. I won't expect routine from you. I'll expect genius. Stuff like this. The real thing. Just when it comes to you, and you feel you can't help writing. With this new evidence I can go after Charlie Waterhouse and break him. I'll finish Boice and Weston at the same time. Show up the whole outfit! Whatever'll be left of the Voice by that time, Boice can have and welcome. The Gleaner will be the only paper in Sunbury.'

'My Uncle Arthur is executor of my mother's estate.'

'You go right after him. No time to lose. We must drive this right through.'

'I'll see him to-morrow.'

'Couldn't you find him to-night?'