CHAPTER VIII
THE YOUNG JOURNALIST
With the morning, however, Henry was fresh for the fray again. The prospects of his first day in active journalism swept away all doubts and misgivings.
Edgar having to attend the Monday police court, which was always fat with drunks and wife-beaters, Henry was left to make his way to the Guardian office himself.
On his arrival there he found the office-boy descending the stairs by using the railing as a slide, at the end of which he fell somewhat heavily on the door-mat, but picked himself up and smiled at Henry in proof that no bones were broken. Upstairs, the weedy young man with downy whiskers, who bore on his narrow shoulders the full weight of the Guardian's commercial affairs, was at work on the morning's letters. He looked up as Henry entered, and inquired his business.
"Is Mr. Springthorpe in?" the new reporter asked.
The clerk was surprised for a moment to hear the editor's name mentioned thus early in the day. Then he answered:
"No, he is rather irregular in his hours. He may not arrive till eleven or twelve to-day!"
"It's only ten o'clock now," said Henry, as though he were thinking aloud. He would never try to play Monte Cristo again, and Winton had told him that Mr. Springthorpe was never assiduous in his office attendance.