Henry didn't dream that at this moment he was profoundly angry. Though Henry was too full of himself to observe the other party to the controversy.
Mr Boice clasped his hands on his stomach and sat still.
After a time Mr Boice asked, 'Have you done the story of the Business Men's Picnic?'
Mr Boice continued to sit--motionless, expressionless. His thoughts ran to this effect:--The article on the picnic was by far the most important matter of the whole summer. Every advertiser on Simpson Street looked for whole paragraphs about himself and his family. Henry was supposed to cover it. He had been there. It would be by no means easy, now, to work up a proper story from any other quarter.
'Suppose,' he remarked, 'you go ahead and get the story in. Then we can have a little talk if you like. I'm rather busy this afternoon.'
He tried to say it ingratiatingly, but it sounded like all other sounds that passed his lips--colourless, casual.
Henry stood up very stiff; drew in a deep breath or two; His fingers tightened about his stick. His colour rose.
He leaned over; rested a hand on the corner of the desk.
'Mr Boice,' he said, firmly if huskily, and a good deal louder than was desirable, here in the post-office, within ear-shot of the moneyorder window--'Mr Boice, what I want from you won't take two minutes of your time. You'd better tell me, right now, whether I'm worth ten dollars a week to the _Voice_. Beginning this week. If I'm not--I'll hand in my string Saturday and quit. Think I can't do better'n this! I wonder! You wait till about next November. Maybe I'll show the whole crowd of you a thing or two! Maybe----'
For the second time on this remarkable day the unexpected happened to and through Norton P. Boice.
Slowly, with an effort and a grunt, he got to his feet. Colour appeared in his face, above the whiskers. He pointed a huge, knobby finger at the door.
'Get out of here!' he roared. 'And stay out!'
Henry hesitated, swung away, turned back to face him; finally obeyed.
Jobless, stirred by a rather fascinating sense of utter catastrophe, thinking with a sudden renewal of exultation about Corinne, Henry wandered up to the Y.M.C.A. rooms and idly, moodily, practise shooting crokinole counters.
