Henry stood motionless, trying to think.'
'Do your work here,' Corinne whispered. 'Stay.'
He shook his head. 'A lot I'd get done--here with you. Now.'
'I'll help you. Couldn't I be just a little inspiration to you?'
'Henry--write something for me! Write me a poem!
'All right. Not to-day, though. Gotta do this Business Men's Picnic.
Then he said, 'Wait a minute;' went into the kitchen.
'Going over town,' he remarked, offhand, to Mrs Henderson.
At the outer door, Corinne murmured: 'You'll come back, Henry?'
With a vague little wave of one hand, and a perplexed expression, he replied: 'Yes, of course.' And hurried off.
Mr Boice wasn't at his desk at the _Voice_ sanctum. Henry could see that much through the front window.
He didn't go in. He felt that he couldn't talk with Humphrey--or anybody--right now. Except old Boice. He was gunning for him. Equal to him, too. Equal to anything. Blazing with determination. Could lick a regiment.
He found his employer down at the post-office. In his little den behind the money-order window. He asked Miss Hemple, there, if he could please speak to Mr Boice.
Once again on this eventful day that conservative member of the village triumvirate found himself forced to gaze at the dressy if now slightly rumpled youth with a silly little moustache that he couldn't seem to let go of, and the thin bamboo stick with a crook at the end. The youth whose time was so valuable that he couldn't arrange to do his work. And once again irritation stirred behind the spotted, rounded-out vest and the thick, wavy, yellowish-white whiskers.
He sat back in his swivel chair; looked at Henry with lustreless eyes; made sounds.
'Mr Boice,' said Henry, 'I--I want to speak with you. It's--it's this way. I don't feel that you're doing quite the right thing by me.'
Another sound from the editor-postmaster. Then silence.
'You gave me to understand that I'd get better pay if I suited. Well, the way you're doing it, I don't even get as much. It ain't right! It ain't square! Now--well--you see, I've about come to the conclusion that if the work I do ain't worth ten a week--well----'
It is to be remembered of Norton P. Boice that he was a village politician of something like forty years' experience. As such he put no trust whatever in words. Once to-day he had raised his voice, and the fact was disturbing. He had weathered a thousand little storms by keeping his mouth shut, sitting tight. He never criticised or quarrelled. He disbelieved utterly in emotions of any sort. He hadn't written a letter in twenty-odd years. And he was not likely to lose his temper again this day--week--or month.