4

The sensation struck Henry, full face, in the barber shop, Schütz and Schwartz's, whither he went from Stanley's. Professor Hennis, of the English department at the university, met him at the door and insisted on shaking hands.

'These sketches of yours, Calverly—the two I have read—are remarkable. There is a freshness of characterisation that suggests Chaucer to me. Sunbury will live to be proud of you.'

This left Henry red and mumbling, rather dumbfounded.

Then, in the chair, Bill Schwartz—fat, exuberant—said, bending over him:—

'Well, how does it feel to be famous, Henry?' And added, 'You've got 'em excited along the street here. Henry Berger says Charlie Waterhouse'll punch your head before night. Says he'll have to. Can't sue very well.'

It was after this and a few other evidences of the stir he was causing that Henry, as Humphrey had done a half-hour earlier, went prowling. He watched and followed the bellowing newsmen. He observed the lively scene at the depot when the nine-three train pulled out, from the cluttered-up window of Murphy's cigar store.

Then, keeping off Simpson Street, which was by this time crowded with the Saturday morning shopping, he slipped around Hemple's corner and up the stairs.

McGibbon sat alone in the front office—coat off, vest open, longish hair tousled, a lock straggling down across his high forehead, eyes strained and staring. He was deep in his swivel chair; long legs stretched out under the desk, smoking a five-cent cigar, hands deep in pockets.

He greeted Henry with a wry, thin-lipped smile, and waved his cigar.

'Great days!' he remarked dryly. 'Gee!' Henry dropped into a chair, laid his bamboo stick on the table, mopped a glistening face. 'Gee! You do know how to get'em going!'

The cigar waved again.

'Sure! Stir'em up! Soak it to'em! Only way.'

'Everybody's buying it.'

'Rather! You're a hit, son!'

'Oh, I don't know's I'd say that.'

'Rats! You're a knockout. Never been anything like it. Two months of it and they'd be throwing your name around in Union Square, N.Y. If we only had the two months.' He sighed.

'Why!' Henry, all nerves, caught his expression. 'What's the matter?'

'We're-out of paper.'

'You mean to print on?'

A nod. 'And we're out of money to buy more.'

'But with this big sale—'

'Costing four 'n' one-half times what we take in.'

'But I don't see——'

'Don't you? That's business, Hen. That's this world. You pour your money in—whip up your sales—drive, drive, drive! After a while it goes of itself and you get your money back. Scads of it. You're rich. That's the way with every young business. Takes nerve I tell you, and vision! Why, I know stories of the early days of—look here, what we need is money. Got to have it. Right now, while they're on the run. If we can't get it, and get it quick, well'—he reached deliberately forward, picked up a copy of the Gleaner and waved it high—'that—that, my son, is the last copy of the Gleaner!'

Henry stared with burning eyes out of a white face.

'But my stories!' he cried.

'They go to the man that gets the paper. If we land in bankruptcy, as we doubtless shall, they will be held by the court as assets.'

'But they're mine!' A note of bewilderment that was despair was in Henry's voice.

McGibbon shook his head.

'No, Hen. We're known to have them. They're in type here. You're helpless. We're both helpless. The thousand dollars you put in, too. You hold my note for that. You'll get so many cents on the dollar when the plant is sold at auction. Or if Boice buys it. He was up here just now. Offered me five hundred dollars. Think of it—five hundred for our plant, the big press and everything.'

'Wha—wha'd you say?'

'Showed him out. Laughed at him. Of course! But it was just a play. Never. Now look here, Hen, you've got a little more, haven't you? Your uncle——'

Henry had reached the limits of his emotional capacity.' He was far beyond the familiar mental process known as thinking. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, knees drawn up, hands clasped tightly, temples drumming, a flush spreading down over his cheeks.

But even in this condition, thoughts came.

One of these—or perhaps it was just a feeling, a manifestation of a sort of instinct—was of hostility to Bob here. It. brought a touch of guilty discomfort—hostility came hard, with Henry—yet it was distinctly there. Bob was doubtless right. All his experience. And his wonderful fighting nerve. Yet somehow he wouldn't do.

'No!' said Henry. And again, 'No! Not a cent from my uncle!'

McGibbon's hand still held up the paper. He brought it down now with a bang. On the desk. And sprang up, speaking louder, with quick, intense gestures.

'You don't seem to get it, Hen!' he cried. 'We're through—broke!' He glanced around at the press-room door and controlled his voice. 'No pay-roll—nothing! Nothing for the boys out there—or me—or you. I've been sitting here wondering how I can tell'em. Got to.'

'Nothing!' Henry echoed weakly, fumbling at his Little moustache—'for me?'

'Not a cent.'

'But—but——' Henry's earthly wealth at the moment was about forty cents. His rough estimate of immediate expenditures was considerable.

'Got to have money now, Hen! To-day. Before night. Can't you get hold of that fact? Even a hundred—the pay-roll's only ninety-six-fifty. If I could handle that, likely I could make a turn next week and get our paper stock in time.'

Henry heard his own voice saying:—

'But don't business men borrow——'

'Borrow! Me? In this town? They wouldn't lend me the rope to hang myself with... Hold on there, Hen—'

For the young man had picked up his stick and was moving toward the door. And as he hurried out he was saving, without looking back:—

'No... No!'

He said it on the stairs, where none could hear. He rushed around the corner, around the block. Anything to keep off Simpson Street. He had a really rather desperate struggle to keep from talking his heart out—aloud—in the street—angrily—attacking Boice, Weston, and McGibbon in the same breath. His feeling against McGibbon amounted to bitterness now. But his feeling against old Boice had risen to the borders of rage. He thought of that silent, ponderous old man, sitting at his desk in the post-office, like a spider weaving his subtle web about the town, where helpless little human flies crawled innocently about their uninspired daily tasks.

So Mr Boice had offered five hundred for plant, good will, and the stories!

No mere legal, technical claim on those stories as property, as assets, held the slightest interest for Henry. He couldn't understand that. They were his. He had created them, made them out of nothing—just a few one-cent lead pencils and a lot of copy paper. Bob had snatched them away to print them in the Gleaner. But they weren't Bob's.

'They're mine!' he said aloud. 'They're mine! Old Boice shan't have them! Never!' He caught himself then; looked about sharply, all hot emotion and tingling nerves.