'Oh, no—not terrible. You're too hard on yourself.'
'I'm not hard on myself. It's his fault. He spoiled it.'
'Who—Boice? I shouldn't wonder. He could spoil The New York Sun in two days, with just a little rope.'
'He tore it all to pieces. I've got the real story here. I couldn't let you see it, of course.'
McGibbon glanced down at the roll of paper.
'You like to write, don't you?' Henry nodded shortly. 'Boice won't let you do it, I suppose.' Henry shook his head. 'He wouldn't. You know, there isn't really any reason why a country paper shouldn't be interesting. Play to the subscriber, you know. Boice plays to the advertiser and the county printing. Other way takes longer, takes a little more money at first, but once you get your subscriber hooked, the advertiser has to follow. Better for the long game.'
Henry was only half listening. They were crossing the Lake Shore Drive now. They stopped at the railing and looked out over the lake. Henry's thoughts were darting this way and that, searching instinctively for a weak spot in the wall of fate that had closed in on him.
'I've got a little money,' he said.
McGibbon smiled.
'Well, it has its uses.'