7

One effect of the scene was a slight coolness toward McGibbon.

'I shall want your note,' he said.

McGibbon turned his head away at this and looked out of the car window. Then, a moment later, he replied:—

'Sure! Of course! It's just as I told you—always watch a man who hesitates a minute in money matters.'

'Three months,' said Henry.

'And we can arrange renewals in a friendly spirit between ourselves,' said McGibbon.

At the Sunbury station, Henry drew a little red book from his pocket, knit his brows, and said:—

'I owe you for those car fares. Two; wasn't it? Or three?'

'Oh, shucks! Don't think of that!'

'Was it two or three?'

'Well—if you really—two.'

Henry gave him a dime. Then entered the item in the small book.

'What's that?' asked McGibbon. 'Keep accounts?'

'Oh, yes,' Henry replied; 'I'm very careful about money.'

'It's a good way to be,' said McGibbon.

The Gleaner office was over Hemple's meat-market on Simpson Street, up a long flight of stairs. Here they paused.

'Come up,' said McGibbon jovially, 'and pick out the place for your desk.'

'No,' said Henry; 'not now. Got to hurry. But I'll be right over.'

He had to hurry, because it was nearly five o'clock, and Mr Boice might be gone. And it seemed to Henry to be important that he should have the cheque still in his pocket at the moment.

His eyes were burning again. And his brain was racing.

'Say!' he cried abruptly. 'Look here! Miss Dittenhoefer——'

Their eyes met. I think McGibbon, for the first time, really felt the emotional power that was unquestionably in Henry. His own quick eyes now took on some of that fire.

'Great!' he answered. And would have talked on, but Henry had already torn away, almost running.

He rushed past the Gleaner office without a glance. It suddenly didn't matter whether Mr Boice had gone or not. Henry was a firebrand now. He would unhesitatingly trail the man to his home, to the Sunbury Club, to Charlie Waterhouse's, even to Mr Weston's. The Power was on him!

Mr Boice had not gone. Even twenty minutes later, when Henry came into the office, he was still at his desk. Over it, between the dusty pile of the Congressional Record and the heap of ancient zinc etchings, his thick gray hair could be seen.

Henry entered, head erect, tread firm, marched in through the gate in the railing to his table, rummaged through the heaps of old exchanges, proofs, hand-bills, and programmes for a book that was there, and certain other little personal possessions. The two pencils and one penholder were his. Also, a small glass inkstand. He gathered these up, made a parcel in a newspaper. He felt Humphrey's eyes on him. He heard old Boice move.

Then came the husky voice.

'Henry!' He went on tying the parcel. 'Henry—come here!'

He turned to his friend.

'Gotta do it, Hump. Tell you later.'

Then he moved deliberately to the desk out front, rested an elbow on it, looked down at the bulky, motionless figure sitting there.

'Where've you been?' asked Mr Boice.

'Been attending to my own affairs.'

'How do you expect your work to be done? The fiftieth anniversary of——'

'I haven't any work here.'

'Oh, you haven't?'

'No. Through with you. You owe me a little for this week, but I don't want it. Wouldn't take it as a gift.' His voice was rising. He could feel Humphrey's eyes over the top of his desk. And a stir by the press-room door told him that Jim Smith was listening there, with two or three compositors crowding pip behind him. 'Not as a gift. It's dirty money. I'm through with you. You and your crooked crowd!'

'Oh, you are?'

'Yes. Through with you. I'm on a decent paper now. A paper that ain't afraid to print the truth.'

Mr Boice, still motionless, indulged his only nervous affection, making little sounds.'

'Mmm!' he remarked. 'Hmm! Ump! Mmm!' Then he said, 'Meaning the Gleaner, I presume.'

'Meaning the Gleaner.'

'I suppose you know that McGibbon's slated to fail within the month. He can't so much as meet his pay-roll.'

'I know more'n that!' cried Henry, laughing nervously. 'I know he's got money because I put some in to-day. Miss Dittenhoefer's quitting you this week, too. She's enthusiastic about us. I've just seen her. We're going to have a big property there. We'll buy you out one o' these days for a song. Then it'll be the Gleaner and Voice. See? But, first, we're going to clean up the town. You and Charlie Waterhouse and that-old whited sepulchre in the bank! I'll show you you can't fool with me!'

It was very youthful. Henry wished, in a swift review, that he had thought up something better and rehearsed it.

Then he saw the eyes of the huge, still man waver down to his desk. And his heart bounded.

'He's afraid of me!' ran his thoughts. 'I've licked him!'

It was the time to leave. Parcel under arm, he strode out.

Out on the sidewalk, he laughed aloud. Which wouldn't do. He was a business man now. With investments. He mustn't go grinning down Simpson Street.

But it was worth a thousand dollars. Just to feel this way once.

Jim Smith? out of breath, came sidling up to the corner. He had run around through the alley.

He wrung Henry's hand.

'Great!' he cried. 'Soaked it to the old boy, you did! Makes me think of a story. Maybe you've heard this one. If you have, just——'

A hand fell on Henry's shoulder.

It was Humphrey, hatless. He must have walked out right past Mr Boice. His face wrinkled into a grin.

'My boy,' he said, 'right here and now I thank you for the joy you've brought into my young life. The impossible has happened. The beautifully impossible. It was great.'

'Well,' cried Henry, beaming, unstrung, a touch of nervous aggression in his voice, 'I said it!'

'Oh, you said it' cried Humphrey.

Thus Henry closed a door behind him. And treading the air, trying desperately to control the upward-twitching corners of his mouth, humming the wedding-march from Lohengrin to the familiar words:—

Here comes the bride—

Get on to her stride!

—he marched, a conqueror, down Simpson Street. Yes, it was worth a thousand.

Back in the old Voice office, Mr Boice sat motionless, big hands sprawling across his thighs, making little sounds.

I think he was trying, in his deliberate way, to figure out what had happened. But he never succeeded in figuring it out. Not this particular incident. He couldn't know that it is as well to face a tigress as an artist whose mental offspring you have injured.

No; to him, Henry, the boy of the silly little cane and the sillier moustache, had stepped out of character. He couldn't know that Henry, the drifting, helpless youth, and Henry the blazing artist were two quite different persons. In Mr Boice's familiar circles they played duplicate whist and talked business, but they were not acquainted with the mysteries of dual personality such as appear in the case of any genius, great or small.

Nor (for the excellent reason that he had never heard of William Blake or his works) did the immortal line come to mind;—

Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Mr Boice was obliged to give it up.