'But with this big sale--'
'Costing four 'n' one-half times what we take in.'
'But I don't see----'
'Don't you? That's business, Hen. That's this world. You pour your money
in--whip up your sales--drive, drive, _drive!_ After a while it goes of
itself and you get your money back. Scads of it. You're rich. That's the
way with every young business. Takes nerve I tell you, and vision! Why,
I know stories of the early days of--look here, what we need is money.
Got to have it. Right now, while they're on the run. If we can't get it,
and get it quick, well'--he reached deliberately forward, picked up a
copy of the _Gleaner_ and waved it high--'that--that, my son, is the
last copy of the _Gleaner!_'
Henry stared with burning eyes out of a white face.
'But my stories!' he cried.
'They go to the man that gets the paper. If we land in bankruptcy, as we
doubtless shall, they will be held by the court as assets.'
'But they're mine!' A note of bewilderment that was despair was in
Henry's voice.
McGibbon shook his head.
'No, Hen. We're known to have them. They're in type here. You're
helpless. We're both helpless. The thousand dollars you put in, too. You
hold my note for that. You'll get so many cents on the dollar when the
plant is sold at auction. Or if Boice buys it. He was up here just
now. Offered me five hundred dollars. Think of it--five hundred for our
plant, the big press and everything.'
'Wha--wha'd you say?'
'Showed him out. Laughed at him. Of course! But it was just a play.
Never. Now look here, Hen, you've got a little more, haven't you? Your
uncle----'
Henry had reached the limits of his emotional capacity.' He was far
beyond the familiar mental process known as thinking. He was sitting on
the edge of his chair, knees drawn up, hands clasped tightly, temples
drumming, a flush spreading down over his cheeks.
But even in this condition, thoughts came.
One of these--or perhaps it was just a feeling, a manifestation of a
sort of instinct--was of hostility to Bob here. It. brought a touch
of guilty discomfort--hostility came hard, with Henry--yet it was
distinctly there. Bob was doubtless right. All his experience. And his
wonderful fighting nerve. Yet somehow he wouldn't do.
'No!' said Henry. And again, 'No! Not a cent from my uncle!'
McGibbon's hand still held up the paper. He brought it down now with a
bang. On the desk. And sprang up, speaking louder, with quick, intense
gestures.
'You don't seem to get it, Hen!' he cried. 'We're through--broke!' He
glanced around at the press-room door and controlled his voice. 'No
pay-roll--nothing! Nothing for the boys out there--or me--or you. I've
been sitting here wondering how I can tell'em. Got to.'
'Nothing!' Henry echoed weakly, fumbling at his Little moustache--'for
me?'
'Not a cent.'
'But--but----' Henry's earthly wealth at the moment was about forty
cents. His rough estimate of immediate expenditures was considerable.
'Got to have money now, Hen! To-day. Before night. Can't you get hold
of that fact? Even a hundred--the pay-roll's only ninety-six-fifty. If
I could handle that, likely I could make a turn next week and get our
paper stock in time.'