He was all shut up within himself. Since their talk of the evening he hadn't mentioned the subject. It was clear that he couldn't mention it. He spoke of curiously irrelevant things. The style of Robert Louis Stevenson, for one. During the walk from the rooms to Stanley's. And then he brought up Bob McGibbon's theory that even with a country weekly, if you made your paper interesting enough you would get readers and the readers would bring the advertising He asked if Humphrey thought it would work out. 'It's important to me, you know, Hump. I've got a cool thousand up on the Gleaner. It's like betting on Bob McGibbon's idea to win.' His voice trembled a little. There were volcanoes of feeling stirring within the boy. He would erupt of course, sooner or later. Humphrey found the experience moving to the point of pain.
When he entered the Gleaner office, Bob McGibbon, looking up at him anxiously, said good-morning, then pursed his lips in thought.
He found occasion to say, later:—
'Henry, how are you taking this thing?'
Henry swallowed, glanced out of the window, then threw out one hand with an expressive gesture and raised his eyes.
'Oh,' he said, 'all right. I—it's not true, Bob. Not about me.'
'That's just what I tell 'em,' said McGibbon eagerly. 'What you going to do? Go right on?'
'Well—why, yes! I can't run away.'
'Of course not. These things are mean. In a small town. Hypocrisy all round. I was thinking it over this morning, and it occurred to me you might like to get off by yourself and do some real writing for the paper. That's what we need, you know. Sketches. Snappy poetry. Little pictures of life-like George Ade's stuff in the Record. Or a bit of the 'Gene Field touch. Something they'd have to read. Make the Gleaner known. Put it on every centre table in Sunbury. That's what we really need from you, you know. Your own stuff, not ours. Take this reception to-night at the Jenkins'. Anybody can cover that. I'll go myself.'
Henry, pale, lips compressed, shook his head.