"Damn it," he said, "I'm ill, I tell you; I want ..."
"Exactly!" I cut in. "You want a rest, old fellow. Here's Cal's article.
We want something special about it. If you don't feel up to it I'll send
round to Jenkins."
"Damn Jenkins," he said; "I'm up to it."
"You understand," I said, "you're to write strictly on Callan's lines.
Don't insert any information from extraneous sources. And make it as
slashing as you like--on those lines."
He grunted in acquiescence. I left him lying on the sofa, drinking the
coffee. I had tenderly arranged the lights for him as Fox had arranged
them the night before. As I went out to get my dinner I was comfortably
aware of him, holding the slips close to his muddled eyes and
philosophically damning the nature of things.
When I returned, Soane, from his sofa, said something that I did not
catch--something about Callan and his article.
"Oh, for God's sake," I answered, "don't worry me. Have some more coffee
and stick to Cal's line of argument. That's what Fox said. I'm not
responsible."
"Deuced queer," Soane muttered. He began to scribble with a pencil. From
the tone of his voice I knew that he had reached the precise stage at
which something brilliant--the real thing of its kind--might be
expected.
Very late Soane finished his leader. He looked up as he wrote the last
word.
"I've got it written," he said. "But ... I say, what the deuce is up?
It's like being a tall clock with the mainspring breaking, this."