He bounced off and recovered his balance, then went into his cubicle through the door. It was a windowless hole, lit by a single small bulb. Wilbur worked at an old table which was neatly stacked with sheets of blank paper. He furnished his own pen.
There was a small window in Wilbur's door, but contrary to what a visitor might have expected, it had not been placed there for Wilbur's convenience. The window was the means by which Bellows could watch his poet and be certain that he was working every minute of the time.
Today Wilbur found himself at a loss for rhymes. By mid-morning he had completed only fifteen poems in praise of Mother. He still had some fifty to go. But instead of writing he too often caught himself listening to what was going on in the outer office.
"Mr. Bellows—" the new girl started to say.
"Call me Pete," Wilbur heard Bellows tell her. "I'll call you Jean. Just one happy family, you know, you and I and Wilbur."
"Does Mr. Mook write all the poetry?" Miss Burnett wanted to know. She sounded quite impressed and Wilbur glowed with a new found pride.
"Just a knack. Doesn't take any brains," Bellows deprecated. "Any fool could do it."
I'd like to see you try, Wilbur thought. You're one fool who couldn't. He thought that was pretty good repartee, even if it was only mental. Wilbur wished he had the nerve to say the words to Bellows' face. But he didn't.
His newspaper, still folded to the classified ads, reposed in Wilbur's wastebasket and his eyes chanced to fall upon it. Something stirred in Wilbur. There had been one advertisement in particular. Just below the request for a bodyguard. He wondered if he had read it right.