"Fire away," he said, elegantly. "But be as quick as you can, please.
This is closing day and every minute counts."
Harrington smiled his ingenuous smile. It was a wistful smile—not a happy one—but it seemed, somehow, to illumine the office. Maxwell reflected irritably that there was something unusually likable about the fellow, but he wished he'd hurry up and get out. From force of habit his fingers grasped a blue pencil on his desk, and he began to fumble nervously among the manuscripts that lay before him. Harrington settled back more firmly in his chair, and the swinging of his torn boot was accelerated a trifle, but his voice when he spoke was full of quiet confidence.
"It's a good thing, suh," he said, "and I can tell you-all about it in a sentence. I'm goin' to commit suicide to-day, an' I agree to write the experience foh you, up to the last minute, if you-all will have me buried decently. I don't cayah to be shovelled into the Pottah's Field."
Maxwell dropped the blue pencil and wheeled to look at him. Then his face hardened.
"It's a pretty bad joke," he said, "or a bum sort of bid for charity.
In either case you can't waste any more of my—"
But Harrington had sprung to his feet, his blond young face black with passion.
"Damn you!" he hissed, thrusting his head down close to the other's and clinching his fists. "How dahe you-all say I lie o' ask charity? I'd see you-all in hell befoah I'd take a cent of youah damned money. 'Ain't you got brains enough in youah haid to see that I've got to the end of mah rope?"
Maxwell was a clever man, educated in the world's university. He knew truth when he met it, and he knew human nature.
"Sit down," he said, quietly, "and tell me about it. I'm sorry I spoke as I did, but you must admit that your proposition was rather startling."
Harrington sat down, still breathing hard in his excitement, but evidently making a resolute effort to control himself.