“I said, what shall I do? Tear it up? Do you want it transscribed? Is it for the archives, so you can whip it out someday in case it’s justified?”
He was looking at her, then, perplexedly. “I said. It’s tomorrow’s editorial.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Why?”
She glanced apprehensively at her wrist watch and back at the smallish man in the chair.
“It would fill the whole page. There’s hardly time to set it up, anyhow, to make the home-delivery edition. Bulldog’s almost out….”
“Shoot it right to composing,” he said, yawning.
She stood up and came to the side of his desk. “You quitting the Transcript, Coley, after you spent your life to build it?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean— maybe? This thing rubs salt in every sore in town! It kicks every private idol to smithereens!”