'Oh, no--not terrible. You're too hard on yourself.'
'I'm not hard on myself. It's _his_ fault. He spoiled it.'
'Who--Boice? I shouldn't wonder. He could spoil _The New York Sun_ in two days, with just a little rope.'
'He tore it all to pieces. I've got the real story here. I couldn't let you see it, of course.'
McGibbon glanced down at the roll of paper.
'You like to write, don't you?' Henry nodded shortly. 'Boice won't let you do it, I suppose.' Henry shook his head. 'He wouldn't. You know, there isn't really any reason why a country paper shouldn't be interesting. Play to the subscriber, you know. Boice plays to the advertiser and the county printing. Other way takes longer, takes a little more money at first, but once you get your subscriber hooked, the advertiser has to follow. Better for the long game.'
Henry was only half listening. They were crossing the Lake Shore Drive now. They stopped at the railing and looked out over the lake. Henry's thoughts were darting this way and that, searching instinctively for a weak spot in the wall of fate that had closed in on him.
'I haven't quite got it. I get the interest. And they'll have to give me all of it in November. The seventh. I'll be twenty-one then.' These words seemed to reassure. Henry. 'Yes; I'll be twenty-one. It's quite a little, too. Over four thousand dollars. It was my mother's.'
'It's not to be sneezed at,' said McGibbon reflectively. 'If I had four thousand right now--or one thousand, for that matter--I could make sure of turning my corner and landing the old _Gleaner_ on Easy Street. I've had a fight with that paper. Been through a few things these eight months. But I'm gaining circulation in chunks now. Six months more, and I'll nail that gang.'
'You know'--McGibbon threw a knee up on the railing and lighted a cigar--'it takes money to make money.'
'A thousand dollars now on the _Gleaner_ would be worth ten thousand ten years from now.' He smoked thoughtfully. 'I've been watching you, Calverly. And if it wasn't so tough on you, I could laugh at old Boice. He's got a jewel in you, and he doesn't know it. I suppose he keeps you grinding--correcting proof, running around----'
'Oh, you've no idea!' Henry burst out. 'Everything! Just an awful grind! And now he expects me to cover all the "Society" and "Church Doings."'