'Henry!' He went on tying the parcel. 'Henry—come here!'
He turned to his friend.
'Gotta do it, Hump. Tell you later.'
Then he moved deliberately to the desk out front, rested an elbow on it, looked down at the bulky, motionless figure sitting there.
'Where've you been?' asked Mr Boice.
'Been attending to my own affairs.'
'How do you expect your work to be done? The fiftieth anniversary of——'
'I haven't any work here.'
'Oh, you haven't?'
'No. Through with you. You owe me a little for this week, but I don't want it. Wouldn't take it as a gift.' His voice was rising. He could feel Humphrey's eyes over the top of his desk. And a stir by the press-room door told him that Jim Smith was listening there, with two or three compositors crowding pip behind him. 'Not as a gift. It's dirty money. I'm through with you. You and your crooked crowd!'