Читать книгу Jericho's Daughters - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 25

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Presently Wistart ceased his pacing and went out into the reception room. Miss Finch glanced up to see if he wished her to come with her pad and pencil, but he did not speak or even look at her, so she returned to her typewriting. Without any particular plan or reason he passed out and down the hall toward the city room of his newspaper.

At his appearance in that busy place Hudson, the managing editor, came to his feet with surprising celerity, an expression of anxiety in his eyes. The boss did not make a practice of visiting his subordinates: he sent for them. Hudson reasoned that it must be something serious that brought Mr. Wedge in person to the city room. Moreover, he thought with a thrill of fear that he knew what it was.

Only a few minutes before he had finished a telephonic conversation with Mrs. Wedge at her home, and he was still tingling from it. Mrs. Wedge could be extremely prickly when she was annoyed; and obviously she was annoyed by his call. He wondered why.

His proposal to her, that he send a special reporter and photographer to interview her and make a truly memorable story of her recent travels, with an assurance that he would give it his personal oversight to make sure they handled it as she would like to have it written—which in his mind meant with all possible superlatives and encomiums—should have been flattering to her. In his entire newspaper experience Samson J. Hudson had hardly known anyone who was not flattered by being mentioned prominently and admiringly in a newspaper, and who did not feel correspondingly friendly and grateful toward the man who made such mention possible.

But Mrs. Wedge had said no, that she did not think much should be made of it. And when he rather insisted, on the surmise that she was playing coy and wanted to be wheedled, she became at first stiff, and then cold, and finally biting. She left him with a flea in his ear that still was burrowing painfully in that tender organ, and he was very fearful that he had made a serious mistake in going so strongly into the matter.

Moreover, he was angry. At whom? Debs Dorn, perhaps. Yes, Debs should have warned him. What was the fellow there for if not to help a worried managing editor in such matters? Undoubtedly Debs was smirking to himself secretly now, since he had allowed his superior to blunder into so unhappy an impasse. It was treachery, really! Mr. Debs Dorn would have occasion to regret it ...

But at this moment Wistart Wedge walked into the room. Instantly all rage, all thought of Debs Dorn, fled from Samson J. Hudson’s mind. Inwardly he shook. Without doubt Mrs. Wedge, angered by his well-intentioned but evidently ill-timed efforts to convince her that she should be photographed and featured on page one, had telephoned her husband expressing her displeasure. Now her husband had come to take Hudson to task. The managing editor gulped at the thought of his own evil fortune and groped in his mind for some excuse with which to appease his employer’s wrath.

At first Wistart did not speak. Wordlessly Hudson stood gazing at him, trying to read his expression. Then Wistart made a scraping sound in his throat, shifted his feet, his lips almost twitched, and with a sudden sensation of acute embarrassment his eyes fell.

Mary Agnes had not, as Hudson feared, telephoned him. As a matter of fact, now that he had wandered into the city room, Wistart did not know what to say to this man, his subordinate, to explain why he was here.

After a tense moment Hudson relaxed slightly. He was accustomed to interpreting the looks of others, particularly those above him in station. And he knew certain symptoms, or thought he did. Sometimes after drinking a little too much—discreetly, of course, and secretly—he felt the inevitable aftereffect next morning. He believed now that he recognized an unsteadiness of hand, a dullness of eye in his employer.

Relief swept over him. Far from feeling alarm now, he almost had to repress a chuckle. The boss himself? Well, why not? After what had just happened over the telephone, Hudson could imagine that things did not run exactly smoothly in the Wedge home. That woman—she had a nasty temper and a nasty tongue. Who was to blame her husband if he overindulged a little? It was only human.

Hudson liked to think that other people were “human,” because to him the word signified that they were weak, and he felt he knew better how to deal with the weak than with the strong. All at once he saw a chance to repair the damage of his unfortunate conversation with Mrs. Wedge. He could at least win her husband’s gratitude.

His manner underwent a change. “Excuse me, boss,” he said in a tone of respectful understanding. “You don’t look as if you feel quite like yourself this morning.”

“I didn’t sleep well, to tell the truth,” Wistart mumbled, glad to cover his slight embarrassment.

“Just as a suggestion,” said Hudson confidentially, “you’d feel better if you took a little nip.” Rather furtively he glanced around. “It just happens I have a bottle of pretty good scotch in my desk. Don’t have any use for it myself, of course, but somebody gave it to me yesterday, and it’s still there, unopened. If you like, I’ll slip over to your office with it after a while. Quietly.”

Wistart nodded vaguely. Perhaps a drink would be of some help. He turned and went out.

Five minutes later, with the air of a conspirator, Hudson entered his office and from the side pocket of his coat took a square bottle. The conspiratorial manner was hardly necessary, for the purchase of liquor, after decades of state prohibition, had become legal in Kansas, but Hudson wished his employer to see and appreciate his discretion in making sure nobody suspected he was having a drink in his office. To Wistart the man’s manner was rather annoying. Nevertheless, he permitted Hudson to pour him a stiffish drink, adding water from the carafe on the desk.

“Have one yourself, Hudson?” he asked.

“Oh, no indeed, sir,” the other said virtuously. “I hardly ever drink—never on duty.”

“Well, then, thank you,” said Wistart. He drank. Curious how the alcohol, to which he was unaccustomed so early in the day, warmed him and took some of the edge from his trouble.

“Anything else I can do for you, sir?” asked Hudson.

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll just leave this bottle——”

“No, take it along with you.”

“But you might——”

“Thank you, but no!” Wistart spoke rather more firmly than he intended.

Quickly Hudson pocketed the bottle and left. When he returned to the city room, the staff took note of his face. Its look said, as plainly as if the words were spoken aloud: Big Deal.