“But my cartoons in the Telegraph were rotten. Any work that is not sincere, not intellectually honest—”
Hardy interrupted him:
“Yes; but, Kit, you’re so good that your rotten is better than ’most anybody’s best.” He smiled, and Kittrell blushed and looked away.
Hardy was right. The “Kit” cartoon, back in the Post, created its sensation, and after it appeared the political reporters said it had started a landslide to Clayton; that the betting was 4 to 1 and no takers, and that it was all over but the shouting.
That night, as they were at dinner, the telephone rang, and in a minute Neil knew by Edith’s excited and delighted reiteration of “yes,” “yes,” who had called up. And then he heard her say:
“Indeed I will; I’ll come every night and sit in the front seat.”
When Kittrell displaced Edith at the telephone, he heard the voice of John Clayton, lower in register and somewhat husky after four weeks’ speaking, but more musical than ever in Kittrell’s ears when it said:
“I just told the little woman, Neil, that I didn’t know how to say it, so I wanted her to thank you for me. It was beautiful in you, and I wish I were worthy of it; it was simply your own good soul expressing itself.”
And it was the last delight to Kittrell to hear that voice and to know that all was well.
But one question remained unsettled. Kittrell had been on the Telegraph a month, and his contract differed from that ordinarily made by the members of a newspaper staff in that he was paid by the year, though in monthly instalments. Kittrell knew that he had broken his contract on grounds which the sordid law would not see or recognize and the average court think absurd, and that the Telegraph might legally refuse to pay him at all. He hoped the Telegraph would do this! But it did not; on the contrary, he received the next day a check for his month’s work. He held it up for Edith’s inspection.