Norton P. Boice became aware of the sensation on his familiar way to the Voice office.
Humphrey, at his own editorial desk behind the railing, waited, apparently buried in galley proofs, for the explosion. He had caught it all after leaving Henry at Stanley's door, and had prowled a bit, taking it in.
But Mr Boice simply made little sounds—'Hmm!' and 'mmp!' and 'Hmm!' again. Then, slowly lifting his ponderous figure, the upper half of his face expressionless as always above his long yellowish-white beard, went out.
For an hour he was shut up with Mr Weston in the director's room at the bank; his huge bulk disposed in an armchair; little, low-voiced, neatly bearded Mr Weston standing by the mantel. It came down to this:—
'Could throw him into bankruptcy. He must be about broke.'
Thus Boice. 'We'd get the stories that way. Suppress 'em.'
The old gentleman was still wincing from the artlessly subtle stabs he had suffered a week back in The Caliph of Simpson Street. Everybody within four miles of the postoffice knew who the Caliph was. He had caught people hiding their smiles. Mentally he was considering a new drawn head for the Voice, with the phrase 'And The Weekly Gleaner' neatly printed just below. There never had been room for two papers in Sunbury anyway.
Mr Weston was shaking his head. 'May as well sit tight, Nort. What harm's to be done, is done already. He'll have to come down. We'll get him then.'
'You haven't got any of his paper here, have you?'
'There was one note. I called that some time ago.'