A cigar was in my
mouth. Should I light it with the check? It was for $1,000. After
all, it was more than I had ever before held in my hand at once. But
what was a paltry thousand, aye a paltry ten thousand, to a man's
pride? I bit off the end of my cigar, creased the check into a taper,
and struck a match. I watched it burn and burn. I struck another. I
held it within an inch of the check, but for the life of me I could not
light it.
"The devil take it!" I cried. I flung the cigar out of the window and
laid the check on my desk. Courage? Why, it needed the courage of a
millionaire to light a cigar with a $1,000 check!
The office boy, who came in then, was salvation. The managing editor
wanted to see me. I sprang up with alacrity; anything but the sight of
that figure 1 and the three demon eyes of that $1,000 check!
"Winthrop," said the managing editor to me as I entered his office,
"you've got to go to London. Hillars has gone under----"
"Not dead!" I cried.
"No, no! He has had to give up work temporarily on account of drink.
If it was any other man I'd throw him over in short order.
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