“All right:—typographical error—For ‘whacked’ read ‘manipulated.’ Then you looked over the type-written pages, and I erased and wrote in and finally got out a perfect copy. Now I worked as hard—probably harder—than you did, yet the success of that book was entirely due to you, and not to me. Therefore it is quite right that you should get £20,000 and that I should get two pounds a week. Come now, isn’t it? Speaking as a man of common sense.”
“Speaking exactly in that way I say no it is not right. If the world were properly ruled the compensation of author and secretary would have been exactly the same.”
“Oh, well, if you go so far as that,” replied the Secretary, “I have nothing more to say.”
The author laughed, and the two men bent their energies to the correspondence. When the task was finished, Scriver said:
“I would like to get a couple of days off, Mr. Ringamy. I have some private business to attend to.”
“When could you get back?”
“I’ll report to you on Thursday morning.”
“Very well, then. Not later than Thursday. I think I’ll take a couple of days off myself.”
On Thursday morning Mr. Johnson Ringamy sat in his library looking out of the window, but the day was not as pleasant as when he last gazed at the hills, and the woods, and green fields. A wild spring storm lashed the landscape, and rattled the raindrops against the pane. Mr. Ringamy waited for some time and then opened the study door and looked in. The little room was empty. He rang the bell, and the trim servant-girl appeared.