'They'd hate it. They'd fight. It would raise Ned in the town. But McGibbon wouldn't mind. Or if he didn't have the nerve to print it, any Sunday editor in Chicago would eat it alive.'
'Well, what——'
Humphrey quietly interrupted.
'Little scenes, all through. Funny as Pickwick. There really is a touch of genius in it. Handles you pretty roughly. But they'd laugh. No doubt about that. All sorts of scenes—you and Charlie Waterhouse behind the lemonade stand—Bill Parker's little accident in the tug-of-war.' He read on, to himself. But he knew that Mr Boice sat up stiffly in his chair, with a grunt. He heard him rise, ponderously, and move down the room; then come back.
When he spoke, Humphrey, aware of his perturbation, was moved to momentary admiration by his apparent calmness. He sounded just as usual.
'What are you getting at?' he asked. 'You want something.'
'I want you to take Hemy back at—say, twelve a week.'
'Hm. Have him re-write this?'
'No. Henry won't be able to write another word this week. He's empty. My idea is, Mr Boice, that you'll want to do the cutting yourself. When you've done that, I'll pitch in on the re-write. We can get our three columns out of it all right.'
'Hm!'