Henry chafed.
After a time Mr Boice asked, 'Have you done the story of the Business Men's Picnic?'
Henry shook his head.
'Better get it done, hadn't you?'
Henry shook his head again.
Mr Boice continued to sit—motionless, expressionless. His thoughts ran to this effect:—The article on the picnic was by far the most important matter of the whole summer. Every advertiser on Simpson Street looked for whole paragraphs about himself and his family. Henry was supposed to cover it. He had been there. It would be by no means easy, now, to work up a proper story from any other quarter.
'Suppose,' he remarked, 'you go ahead and get the story in. Then we can have a little talk if you like. I'm rather busy this afternoon.'
He tried to say it ingratiatingly, but it sounded like all other sounds that passed his lips—colourless, casual.
Henry stood up very stiff; drew in a deep breath or two; His fingers tightened about his stick. His colour rose.
He leaned over; rested a hand on the corner of the desk.