As for me I did not think any speech could have been so beautiful, and I felt as if I could have cried for joy.
When I got back to the hotel I did cry, but it was for another reason. I was thinking of my father and wondering why he did not wait.
"Why, why, why?" I asked myself.
FIFTY-THIRD CHAPTER
Next day, Martin came rushing down to my sitting-room with a sheaf of letters in his hand, saying:
"That was jolly good of the boss, but look what he has let me in for?"
They were requests from various newspapers for portraits and interviews, and particularly from one great London journal for a special article to contain an account of the nature and object of the proposed experiment.
"What am I to do?" he said. "I'm all right for stringing gabble, but I couldn't write anything to save my soul. Now, you could. I'm sure you could. You could write like Robinson Crusoe. Why shouldn't you write the article and I'll tell you what to put into it?"
There was no resisting that. And down at the bottom of my secret heart I was glad of the excuse to my conscience that I could not any longer run away from Martin because I was necessary to help him.