“But the care has told upon me. I am not so well as I could wish. I need rest, and I need help,” he added.
Bartley had by this time made up his mind that, if Witherby had anything to say to him, he should say it unaided.
Witherby put down the paper-weight, and gave his attention for a moment to a paper-cutter. “I don't know whether you have heard that Mr. Clayton is going to leave us?”
“No,” Bartley said, “I hadn't heard that.”
“Yes, he is going to leave us. Mr. Clayton and I have not agreed upon some points, and we have both judged it best that we should part.” Witherby paused again, and changed the positions of his inkstand and mucilage-bottle. “Mr. Clayton has failed me, as I may say, at the last moment, and we have been compelled to part. I found Mr. Clayton—unpractical.”
He looked again at Bartley, who said, “Yes?”
“Yes. I found Mr. Clayton so much at variance in his views with—with my own views—that I could do nothing with him. He has used language to me which I am sure he will regret. But that is neither here nor there; he is going. I have had my eye on you, Mr. Hubbard, ever since you came to Boston, and have watched your career with interest. But I thought of Mr. Clayton, in the first instance, because he was already attached to the Events, and I wished to promote him. Office during good behavior, and promotion in the direct line: I'm that much of a civil-service reformer,” said Witherby.
“Certainly,” said Bartley.
“But of course my idea in starting the Events was to make money.”
“Of course.”