Dreiser, Theodore, 1871-1945; Journalists -- United States -- Biography; Novelists, American -- 20th century -- Biography
“No it’s not,” I replied truculently, “and I won’t do it, that’s all.
It’s all right about Dick and Peter—I know what they’ll do for me if the
paper will let them, but I know the paper won’t let them, and besides,
you’re not going to be able to claim in the morning that this man was
brought to the _Globe_ first. I know you. Don’t begin to try to put
anything over on me, because I won’t stand for it, see? And if these
people do it anyhow I’ll make a kick at headquarters, that’s all.”
For a moment he appeared to be quieted by this and to decide to abandon
his project, but later he took it up again, seemingly in the most
conciliatory spirit in the world. At the same time, and from now on, he
kept boring me with his eyes, a thing which I had never known him to do
before. He was always too hang-dog in looking at me; but now of a sudden
there was something bold and friendly as well as tolerant and cynical in
his gaze.
“Aw, come on,” he argued. He was amazingly aggressive. “What’s the use
being small about it? The _Globe’s_ nearer. Think what a fine picture
it’ll make. If you don’t we’ll have to go clear to the office and send
an artist down to the jail. You can’t take any good pictures down there
tonight.”
“Cut it,” I replied. “I won’t do it, that’s all,” but even as he talked
a strange feeling of uncertainty or confusion began to creep over me.
For the first time since knowing him, in spite of all my opposition of
this afternoon and before, I found myself not quite hating him but
feeling as though he weren’t such an utterly bad sort after all. What
was so wrong about this _Globe_ idea anyhow, I began suddenly to ask
myself, in the most insane and yet dreamy way imaginable. Why wouldn’t
it be all right to do that? Inwardly or downwardly, or somewhere within
me, something was telling me that it was all wrong and that I was making
a big mistake even to think about it. I felt half asleep or surrounded
by clouds which made everything he said seem all right. Still, I wasn’t
asleep, and now I didn’t believe a word he said, but——
“To the _Globe_, sure,” I found myself saying to myself in spite of
myself, in a dumb, half-numb way. “That wouldn’t be so bad. It’s nearer.
What’s wrong with that? Dick or Peter will make a good picture, and then
I can take it along,” only at the same time I was also thinking, “I
shouldn’t really do that. He’ll claim the credit for having brought this
man to the _Globe_ office. I’ll be making a big mistake. The _Republic_
or nothing. Let him come down to the _Republic_.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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