“His lamp of genius will not go out for want of oil,” I remarked.
“For a moment he showed one glimmer of sense: he came to me for advice,” said Mr. Blodgett in evident enjoyment. “I told him to get an A 1 business manager, to make you chief editor, let you pick your staff, and then blow in all the money you and the business end asked for, and never go inside the building himself. It was too good sense for him, for he’s daft with the idea of showing the world how to edit a paper. But my advice simmered down to this: if you want to be his private secretary, at four thousand a year, and pretend to revise his editorials, but really write them for him, I guess you can have the position. Of course he is to think he writes the rubbish.”
“A Voltaire in miniature,” I laughed.
“A what?”
“The great Frederic thought himself a poet, and induced Voltaire to come and be his literary counselor. The latter showed a bundle of manuscripts to some one and sneered, ‘See all this dirty linen of the king’s he has sent me to wash.’”
“That was one for his nibs,” chuckled Mr. Blodgett appreciatively. “But you mustn’t make such speeches as that of Whitely.”
“In spite of my many tongues, I can be mute.”
“Do you think I haven’t seen that? And I’ve seen something more, which is that you always give a dollar’s worth of work for seventy-five cents of wages. Now, Whitely’s a hard man, and if you made the terms with him he’d be sure to get the better of you. So I’ve arranged to have him meet you here, and I’m going to see fair play. I’ve told him you won’t do it for less than four thousand, and he’ll not get you a cent cheaper. The work will be very light.”
“The work is easy,” I assented, “but is it honest?”
“Seems to me we had better leave that to Whitely to settle.”