The press-room door was ajar, Humphrey reached out and closed it.
Henry raised his voice; got out of his chair and sat on the edge of the table. His eyes brightened sharply. Emotion crept into his voice and shook it a little.
'Do you know what's he done to me—that old doubleface? Took me in here two years ago at eight a week with a promise of nine if I suited. Well, I did suit. But did I get the nine? Not until I'd rowed and begged for seven months. A year of that, a lot more work—You know! “Club Notes,” this library stuff, “Real Estate Happenings,” “Along Simpson Street,” reading proof—'
Humphrey slowly nodded as he smoked.
'—And I asked for ten a week. Would he give it? No! I knew I was worth more than that, so I offered to take space rates instead. Then what does he do? You know, Hump. Been clipping me off, one thing after another, and piling on the proof and the office work. Here's one thing more gone to-day. Last week my string was exactly seven dollars and forty-six cents. Dam it, it ain't fair! I can't live! I won't stand it. Gotta be ten a week or I—I'll find out why. Show-down.'
He rushed to the door. Then, as if his little flare of indignation had burnt out, fingered there, knitting his brows and looking up and down the street and across at the long veranda of the Sunbury House, where people sat in a row in yellow rocking chairs.
Humphrey smoked and considered him. After a little he remarked quietly:—
'Look here, Hen, I don't like it any more than you do. I've seen what he was doing. I've tried to forestall him once or twice——'
'I know it, Hump.' Henry turned. He was quite listless now. 'He's a tricky old fox. If I only knew of something else I could do—or that we could do together——'
'But—this was what I was going to say—no matter how we feel, I'm going to be really in trouble if I don't get that picnic story pretty soon. Mr Boice asked about it this morning.'