'But I don't see——'
'Don't you? That's business, Hen. That's this world. You pour your money in—whip up your sales—drive, drive, drive! After a while it goes of itself and you get your money back. Scads of it. You're rich. That's the way with every young business. Takes nerve I tell you, and vision! Why, I know stories of the early days of—look here, what we need is money. Got to have it. Right now, while they're on the run. If we can't get it, and get it quick, well'—he reached deliberately forward, picked up a copy of the Gleaner and waved it high—'that—that, my son, is the last copy of the Gleaner!'
Henry stared with burning eyes out of a white face.
'But my stories!' he cried.
'They go to the man that gets the paper. If we land in bankruptcy, as we doubtless shall, they will be held by the court as assets.'
'But they're mine!' A note of bewilderment that was despair was in Henry's voice.
McGibbon shook his head.
'No, Hen. We're known to have them. They're in type here. You're helpless. We're both helpless. The thousand dollars you put in, too. You hold my note for that. You'll get so many cents on the dollar when the plant is sold at auction. Or if Boice buys it. He was up here just now. Offered me five hundred dollars. Think of it—five hundred for our plant, the big press and everything.'
'Wha—wha'd you say?'
'Showed him out. Laughed at him. Of course! But it was just a play. Never. Now look here, Hen, you've got a little more, haven't you? Your uncle——'