The journalist left them to read Le Sourire and nibble toast in the corner room. Peter cheerfully regarded Hy's new homespun suit, his real Panama hat with a colored stripe in the white fluffy band, his flaming new tie and the silk shirt of exclusive pattern beneath it. Hy caught this scrutiny, and returned the grin.
“I'm in soft, Pete,” he murmured. “Got a raise.”
“Not out of old Wilde?”
Hy nodded. “Considerable story, my son. First the old boy fired me. That was at nine-thirty A. m. I went out and made a day of it. Then, of all things, the Worm comes into the office—”
“The Worm! Henry Bates?”
“Yep. He was on The Courier, you know.”
“Was?”
“Was—and isn't. They sent him up with a stiff story about the missionary funds we've collected through the paper. And what does the old boy do but lock him out and holler through the transom that he'll eat poison, just like that, unless the Worm goes back and kills the story.”
“And what does the Worm?”
“As per instructions.”