“We all have our little code, Dicky, and I haven’t been true to mine. Your paper’s alive, in spite of what I would have done. My code pulled me the other way—against you—but that little thing stood by your interests. You’ve got her to thank, not me.”
“Tell me——”
“They were doing things in this country that I knew about——” the old man shut his eyes, as if in nausea—“but she kept me still. Then they arrested an old friend of mine—man I’ve known for thirty years—man who loves his country all the time—as I do not—and they arrested him. One Sunday morning I wrote my little say about it all, and as I wrote, I heard them singing ‘Nearer, My God, to Thee,’ in a church down the block from my rooms. That’s what I called the article. I was sober. I wrote for all days, and every year I had lived went into it—all I was. I was willing to throw you—a little matter of money which you could afford. I was throwing myself, but I was pleased enough with the story to show it to her Monday morning, instead of sending it down to the composing room.”
The narrative halted for several seconds. Dicky moved around the bed to rest the old man’s eyes.
“That little tumult had me bluffed from the beginning. She barred the way to the printer, that’s all. I thought she was done for when she married Melton, but she came back stronger than ever.... Barred the way, Dicky—put her arms across the door. ‘You can’t do it, John Higgins, you can’t send that down. It’s just wanton destruction. It won’t do what you hope. It won’t help your friend, but make life harder for him and for all the C. O.’s. This isn’t your property to waste. My heart’s in it and Dicky’s money’s in it——’ Well, she had her way—and the thing turned in on me—my own words. My organs of assimilation weren’t strong enough to get away with it.”
Dicky gripped John Higgins’ shoulder. The old man added impressively, “Dicky, I’ve sat at the desk for hours and studied how I could ever tell you this one truth! I haven’t written a decent line since that article! My old side-wheeler doesn’t work—that’s the size of it.”
He was pressing his hand to the top of his head, as he went on:
“I’ve studied how I could tell you. It doesn’t seem quite so hard this morning at the show-down—but she’s written all the decent stuff that’s supposed to come from the Desk.... I mean what I said. I’m for sale. I’ve put it to you straight—the worst. But the paper’s alive and the books are for you to look at. Times are getting freer. The next two issues will get out themselves. It’s all I’ve got——”
“But you can take a leave of absence, and keep your income——”
“No. That would be a drain. That’s morals possibly, but not business. I want to sell, Dicky, and what I ask won’t break you. I thought for a while I was done for, and I made out my part to her. That would be simple—but the old hulk still floats—so I have to have some money.”