“Damn!” he said.
Counter laughed.
“You get a fixed screw for doing what you’re told. Why worry? Papers must be sold. Georgie Grebe—that’s some stunt.”
“Blast Georgie Grebe!”
He took his hat and went out; a prolonged whistle followed him. All next day he spent doing other jobs, trying to persuade himself that he was a crank, and gingerly feeling the mouths of journalists. All he got was: Fuss about nothing! What was the matter with devilling? With life at such pressure, what else could you have? But with the best intentions he could not persuade himself to go on with the thoughts of Georgie Grebe. And he remembered suddenly that his father had changed the dogmas of his religion at forty-five, and thereby lost a cure of souls. He was very unhappy; it was like discovering that he had inherited tuberculosis. On Friday he was sent for by the chief.
“Morning, Taggart; I’m just back. Look here, this leader for to-morrow—it’s nothing but a string of statements. Where’s my style?”
Taggart shifted his considerable weight from foot to foot.
“Well, sir,” he said, “I thought perhaps you’d like to put that in yourself, for a change. The facts are all right.”
The chief stared.
“My good fellow, do you suppose I’ve got time for that? Anybody could have written this; I can’t sign it as it stands. Tone it up.”