I still hadn’t an idea when I turned into the door of the print shop and saw George. He looked at me and I shook my head.
He nodded calmly as though he had expected it, and he spoke very softly, almost in a whisper—I guess so that it back in the shop wouldn’t hear.
“Listen, Walter,” he said, “you’re going to stay out of this. It’s my funeral. It’s all my fault, mine and the little guy with the pimples and—”
“George!” I said, “I think I’ve got it! That—that pimple business gives me an idea! The—Yes, listen: don’t do anything for an hour, will you, George? I’ll be back. It’s in the bag!”
I wasn’t sure it was in the bag at all, but the idea seemed worth trying even if it was a long shot. And I had to make it sound a cinch to George or he’d have gone ahead now that he’d steeled himself to try.
He said, “But tell me—”
I pointed to the clock. “It’s one minute of eight and there isn’t time to explain. Trust me for an hour. O.K.?”
He nodded and turned to go back into the shop, and I was off. I went to the library and I went to the local bookstore and I was back in half an hour. I rushed into the shop with six big books under each arm and yelled, ” Hey, George! Rush job. I’ll set it.”
He was at the type bank at the moment, emptying the stick. I grabbed it out of his hand and sat down at the Linotype and put the stick back under the vise. He said frantically, “Hey, get out of—” and grabbed my shoulder.
I shook off his hand. “You offered me a job here, didn’t you? Well, I’m taking it. Listen, George, go home and get some sleep. Or wait in the outer office. I’ll call you when the job is over.”