The younger man stirred, uneasy under that intimate and betraying confidence.
“Oh, it’s a rotten game, and Lord! how I hate to be quitting it!” pursued the philosopher. “How I’d love to be you, just getting really into it! Perhaps I’d do different. Make a better job of it. Keep to my ideals. Perhaps not. Too heavy odds.” His eyes lifted again with a bleary, dreamy wistfulness. “So you’re going to run an honest newspaper in Fenchester, are you, son?”
The visitor rose. “You bet I am!” he said jubilantly. [Often in the vivid years to follow, the young owner of The Guardian had cause to reflect that the shrewdest professional advice which he had ever disregarded came from one who had just “stuck” him with an all-but-ruinous bargain.]
Late as was the interview, he could n’t go to bed without telling Andrew Galpin. Much depended on that astute youth. Jeremy routed him out of bed, at his boarding-house.
“Come out and get a rarebit and a stein of beer, Andy.”
“Ay-a-a-ah!” yawned Galpin. “Watsamatter with you? What time is it?”
“Quarter to one.”
“You’re crazy, young fellow.”
“I’m worse than that. I’ve just bought The Guardian.”
“What!”