He said, “Sure, for a raise.”
He drank and crumpled the cup, tossing it into the waste basket. He went over to the door marked Private and went through it.
Walter J. Candler, the managing editor, looked up from the work on his desk and said affably, “Sit down, Vine. Be with you in a moment,” and then looked down again.
He slid into the chair opposite Candler, worried a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lighted it. He studied the back of the sheet of paper of which the managing editor was reading the front. There wasn’t anything on the back of it.
The M. E. put the paper down and looked at him. ”
Vine, I’ve got a screwy one. You’re good on screwy ones.”
He grinned slowly at the M. E. He said, “If that’s a compliment, thanks.”
“It s a compliment, all right. You’ve done some pretty tough things for us. This one’s different. I’ve never yet asked a reporter to do anything I wouldn’t do myself. I wouldn’t do this, so I’m not asking you to.”
The M. E. picked up the paper he’d been reading and then put it down again without even looking at it. “Ever hear of Ellsworth Joyce Randolph?”
“Head of the asylum? Hell yes, I’ve met him. Casually.”