Henry was thinking: 'Old crook. Wish I had a paper of my own here and I'd get back at him. Run him out of town, that's what!' And after he had nodded and rushed by, his colouring mounting: 'Like to know why I should work my head off just to make money for him. No sense in that!'
Henry came moodily into the Voice office, dropped down at his inkstained, littered table behind the railing, and sighed twice. He picked up a pencil and fell to outlining ink spots.
The sighs were directed at Humphrey, who sat bent over his desk, cob pipe in mouth, writing very rapidly. 'He's got wonderful concentration,' thought Henry, his mind wandering a brief moment from his unhappy self.
Humphrey spoke without looking up. 'Don't let that Business Men's Picnic get away from you, Hen. Really ought to be getting it in type now. Two compositors loafing out there.'
Henry sighed again; let his pencil fall on the table; gazed heavily, helplessly at the wall...
'Old man say anything to you about the “Library Notes”?'
Humphrey glanced up and removed his pipe. His swarthy long face wrinkled thoughtfully. 'Yes. Just now. He's going to have Miss Wombast send 'em in direct every month.'
'And I don't have 'em any more.'
Humphrey considered this fact. 'It doesn't amount to very much, Hen.'
'Oh, no—works out about sixty cents to a dollar. It ain't that altogether—it's the principle. I'm getting tired of it!'