“I can do more business with you, sir, in five minutes, than I can with another man in fifty,” he said, extracting a wad of typescript from an attaché case. “Here’s the draft of the last article.”
He took it, leaned back in his chair, ran his eye over it. It was headed “The Cut-throat Combine. The Arrowsmith Apaches Uneasy For Their Own Scalps. More Points for the Public Prosecutor.”
He skimmed it through rapidly. It was a scathing denunciation of a predatory Trust with which the proprietors of the Daily Rostrum had quarrelled. Chapter and verse were given for a series of malpractices which, substantiated after this publicity, would infallibly bring the wrongdoers before a court of justice. He leaned forward, picked up a pencil, struck out a few sentences, made other points more telling. Suddenly he frowned, scored out a whole paragraph.
“You’re too tame over this infantile mortality business! You want to let yourself scream over it. That’s the note that’ll wake ’em up! Get all the sentimental parents clamouring for his blood!” He handed back the typescript. “Rewrite the final paragraph and it’ll pass.” He glanced at his watch. “Four and a half minutes, Mr. Bolingbroke!” he said, an almost boyish note of triumph in his voice, “and I guess it’s finish for Mr. James Arrowsmith!”
He turned to his tea while the journalist made his exit. Then he bent himself forward to the business on his desk.
As he ran through and signed letter after letter, his own phrase “Finish for Mr. James Arrowsmith!” rang in his head, repeated itself over and over again with almost the distinctness of an auditory hallucination. A detached portion of his consciousness listened to it, was lured into a train of thought that was not unpleasant.
Of course, he had no real personal grudge against James Arrowsmith. Without him——! He smiled as he set his signature at the foot of yet another letter. That was a long time ago! And he had prophesied it—he remembered, suddenly, his own words—“Give me ten years and I’ll eat James Arrowsmith!” Ten years! He glanced involuntarily at the calendar in front of him, read the date—1932. By Jove, it was ten years—ten years ago—Betty’s birthday! He glanced again at the calendar—and dropped his pen on the desk with a sharp exclamation of annoyance. Good Lord, of course it was! It was Betty’s birthday to-day! And he had forgotten it!
For a moment or two he stared in front of him, his brows contracted into a frown which was directed impartially at circumstance and himself. He had been so terribly busy of late—but, of course, he must find time. Poor old Betty! He took up the telephone instrument on his desk, gave a number.
“Hallo! That you, Betty?—Jack. Jack speaking. Many happy returns of the day! What?—Of course I remembered!—What?—Well, it’s only five o’clock,” his tone was one of self-extenuation. “I say, old girl! We’ll go out to dinner—any restaurant you like! What? You’ve got an appointment?” He repeated the words incredulously. “Oh, very well!—I say, Betty! You haven’t got a cold or anything, have you?—Oh, all right—no, I only thought your voice sounded strange.” He frowned. “Very well—do as you like! Good-bye!” He put back the receiver with a vicious thud.