On Friday morning, I looked at the calendar and it suddenly occurred to me that this was the thirty-first and the receivers would be around this afternoon to decide whether or not to close the place.
There wasn't any doubt as to what they would do. I began to clean out my own desk. I felt terrible.
Then one of the High-Pocketses came in with a piece of copy in his hand. He looked at me queerly and then said softly, "You leaving?"
"Yes," I said bitterly, "I'm going. You got me licked; I'm through."
"I was just trying to point out to you the absurdity of some of your new devices," he said.
"Okay," I said, "you win. Guys like you make a business of going around the country breaking print-shops and printing-office managers."
High-Pockets' booming voice came from the ceiling. "You are mistaken. I did not try to break you."
"Well, you broke me, anyway." I blurted out the whole thing to him, how the receivers were about to close us up, how the Legal Printing Company job was weeks behind and was supposed to be delivered today. Then I apologized. "It isn't your fault," I told him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I just—well, I wanted to make good on this job."
High-Pockets was very thoughtful. "I feel kind of sorry for you," he said.
"Oh, you don't need to. I earned it; I've got it coming. I was just a little too ambitious, that's all. I didn't know a man could be too ambitious."