"But my dear fellow! I can't let you leave me! You've no idea how I value your assistance, how I've come to lean and depend upon you at every point. I never dreamed you were thinking of this. What's the matter? What have you got on your mind?"
"I think," said Queed, unhappily, "that I should be better satisfied off the paper than on it."
"Why, confound you—it's the money!" said West, with a sudden relieved laugh. "Why didn't you tell me, old fellow? You're worth five times what they're paying you—five times as much as I am for that matter—and I can make the directors see it. Trust me to make them raise you to my salary at the next meeting."
"Thank you—but no, my salary is quite satisfactory."
West frowned off into space, looking utterly bewildered. "Of course," he said in a troubled voice, "you have a perfect right to resign without saying a word. I haven't the smallest right to press you for an explanation against your will. But—good Lord! Here we've worked together side by side, day after day, for nearly a year, pretty good friends, as I thought, and—well, it hurts a little to have you put on your hat and walk out without a word. I wish you would tell me what's wrong. There's nothing I wouldn't do, if I could, to fix it and keep you."
The eyes of the two men met across the table, and it was Queed's that faltered and fell.
"Well," he said, obviously embarrassed, "I find that I am out of sympathy with the policy of the paper."
"Oh-h-ho!" said West, slowly and dubiously. "Do you mean my article on the reformatory?"
"Yes—I do."
"Why, my dear fellow!"