Fleetwood spread his hands significantly.
Dermitt moved back to the chair and executed another collapse. It is not likely that the stock crash of '29 could have produced a more vivid picture of the Ruined Man. His arms hung slack at his sides.
"No wonder the story's been going so badly lately," he groaned. "No wonder you haven't been consistent in print." He looked up slowly. "What are you going to do?"
"Nothing special," Fleetwood said. "Live a little, I suppose. I haven't made any definite plans yet. Maybe I'll just do something quiet, like raising flowers."
"You mean—like you said—you're just walking out on me?"
Fleetwood nodded. "But I'd really prefer it if you wouldn't look at it just that way."
"But you can't, Cassidy, you just can't. Not just now anyway. I need you. I've got to finish that story. I've got to have the money from it. I'm up to my ears in bills and obligations. I can show you if you don't believe me.... My—our last one, The Kippered Caper, is going awfully well on reactions and they've already promised me a better price on this one...."
"I'm sorry," Fleetwood said, "really I am."
"But you can't!" Suddenly he stopped, and a look of inspired shrewdness came into his cherubic features. Magnified by his enormous glasses, the new light in his eyes was hard to miss. Fleetwood didn't like the look of it.