6
Mr Boice wasn't at his desk at the Voice sanctum. Henry could see that much through the front window.
He didn't go in. He felt that he couldn't talk with Humphrey—or anybody—right now. Except old Boice. He was gunning for him. Equal to him, too. Equal to anything. Blazing with determination. Could lick a regiment.
He found his employer down at the post-office. In his little den behind the money-order window. He asked Miss Hemple, there, if he could please speak to Mr Boice.
Once again on this eventful day that conservative member of the village triumvirate found himself forced to gaze at the dressy if now slightly rumpled youth with a silly little moustache that he couldn't seem to let go of, and the thin bamboo stick with a crook at the end. The youth whose time was so valuable that he couldn't arrange to do his work. And once again irritation stirred behind the spotted, rounded-out vest and the thick, wavy, yellowish-white whiskers.
He sat back in his swivel chair; looked at Henry with lustreless eyes; made sounds.
'Mr Boice,' said Henry, 'I—I want to speak with you. It's—it's this way. I don't feel that you're doing quite the right thing by me.'
Another sound from the editor-postmaster. Then silence.
'You gave me to understand that I'd get better pay if I suited. Well, the way you're doing it, I don't even get as much. It ain't right! It ain't square! Now—well—you see, I've about come to the conclusion that if the work I do ain't worth ten a week—well——'
It is to be remembered of Norton P. Boice that he was a village politician of something like forty years' experience. As such he put no trust whatever in words. Once to-day he had raised his voice, and the fact was disturbing. He had weathered a thousand little storms by keeping his mouth shut, sitting tight. He never criticised or quarrelled. He disbelieved utterly in emotions of any sort. He hadn't written a letter in twenty-odd years. And he was not likely to lose his temper again this day—week—or month.
Henry didn't dream that at this moment he was profoundly angry. Though Henry was too full of himself to observe the other party to the controversy.
Mr Boice clasped his hands on his stomach and sat still.
Henry chafed.
After a time Mr Boice asked, 'Have you done the story of the Business Men's Picnic?'
Henry shook his head.
'Better get it done, hadn't you?'
Henry shook his head again.
Mr Boice continued to sit—motionless, expressionless. His thoughts ran to this effect:—The article on the picnic was by far the most important matter of the whole summer. Every advertiser on Simpson Street looked for whole paragraphs about himself and his family. Henry was supposed to cover it. He had been there. It would be by no means easy, now, to work up a proper story from any other quarter.
'Suppose,' he remarked, 'you go ahead and get the story in. Then we can have a little talk if you like. I'm rather busy this afternoon.'
He tried to say it ingratiatingly, but it sounded like all other sounds that passed his lips—colourless, casual.
Henry stood up very stiff; drew in a deep breath or two; His fingers tightened about his stick. His colour rose.
He leaned over; rested a hand on the corner of the desk.
'Mr Boice,' he said, firmly if huskily, and a good deal louder than was desirable, here in the post-office, within ear-shot of the moneyorder window—'Mr Boice, what I want from you won't take two minutes of your time. You'd better tell me, right now, whether I'm worth ten dollars a week to the Voice. Beginning this week. If I'm not—I'll hand in my string Saturday and quit. Think I can't do better'n this! I wonder! You wait till about next November. Maybe I'll show the whole crowd of you a thing or two! Maybe——'
For the second time on this remarkable day the unexpected happened to and through Norton P. Boice.
Slowly, with an effort and a grunt, he got to his feet. Colour appeared in his face, above the whiskers. He pointed a huge, knobby finger at the door.
'Get out of here!' he roared. 'And stay out!'
Henry hesitated, swung away, turned back to face him; finally obeyed.
Jobless, stirred by a rather fascinating sense of utter catastrophe, thinking with a sudden renewal of exultation about Corinne, Henry wandered up to the Y.M.C.A. rooms and idly, moodily, practise shooting crokinole counters.
Shortly he wandered out. An overpowering restlessness was upon him. He wanted desperately to do something, but didn't know what it could be. It was as if a live wild animal, caged within his breast, was struggling to get out.
He walked over to the rooms; threw off his coat; tried fooling at the piano; gave it up and took to pacing the floor.
There were peculiar difficulties here, in the big living-room. Corinne had spent an evening here. She had sat in this chair and that, had danced over the hardwood floor, had smiled on him. The place, without Her, was painfully empty.
He knew now that he wanted to write. But he didn't know what. The wild animal was a story. Or a play. Or a poem. Perhaps the poem Corinne had begged for. He stood in the middle of the room, closed his eyes, and saw and felt Corinne close to him. It was a mad but sweet reverie. Yes, surely it was the poem!
He found pencil and paper—a wad of copy paper, and curled up in the window-seat.
Things were not right. Not yet. He was the victim of wild forces. They were tearing at him. It was no longer restlessness—it was a mighty passion. It was uncomfortable and thrilling. Queer that the impulse to write should come so overwhelmingly without giving him, so far, a hint as to what he was to write. Yet it was not vague. He had to do it. And at once. Find the right place and go straight at it. It would come out. It would have to come out.