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Surface rose to his height and took Queed's hand in a grip like iron. His eyes glistened with sudden moisture. "God bless you, boy! You're a man!" It had been a memorable conversation in the life of both men, opening up obvious after-lines of more or less momentous thought.
Queed's name having been duly withdrawn, the directors unanimously elected Charles Gardiner West to the editorship of the Post. By a special resolution introduced by Mr. Hopkins, they thanked Mr. Queed for his able conduct of the editorial page in the absence of the editor, and voted him an increased honorarium of eighteen hundred dollars a year. The directors adjourned, and Mr.
She and her cough had played fast and loose with Queed's great work that evening, and, moreover, it took him a minute and a half to get her out of his mind after she had gone. Not long afterwards, he discovered that the yellow sheet he wrote upon was the last of his pad. That meant that he must count out time to go upstairs and get another one. Count out time!
"Perceiving clearly that I represent a minority view," said Mr. Hickok, "I request the director who nominated Mr. Queed to withdraw his name. I think it proper that our action should be unanimous. But I will say, frankly, that if Mr. Queed's name remains before the board, I shall vote for him, since I consider him from every point of view the man for the position." Mr.
Presently he strolled over to the window and looked down unseeingly into the lamp-lit wetness of Centre Street. In fact, he was the poorest actor in the world, and never pretended anything, actively or passively, without being unhappy. "It's raining like the mischief," he offered uncomfortably. "Cats and dogs," said West, his fingers twiddling with Queed's copy.
Queed's gaze was more formidable than his own. "Mr. Surface," he said, in a peculiarly quiet voice, "you forget yourself strangely. You are in no position to speak to me like this." Surface appeared suddenly to agree with him. He fell back into his chair and dropped his face into his hands.
It was Queed's lifelong habit never to look back with vain regrets; and he needed all of his resolution now. He stood in front of the man whose terrible secret he had surprised, and outwardly he was as calm as ever. "Professor Nicolovius," he said, with a faint emphasis upon the name, "all this is as though it had never passed between us. And now let's go and get some supper."
Queed's slot was infinitely more clearly marked than any of his neighbors'. It ran exclusively between the heaven of his room and the hades of the Post office; manifesting itself at the latter place in certain staid writings done in exchange for ten dollars, currency of the realm, paid down each and every Saturday.
She would have to tuck them away in a drawer somewhere. Don't you think it might be a good idea to give her something that she could enjoy at once something that would give her pleasure now and so help to lighten these tedious hours while she must be in her room?" The mitts were the child of Queed's own brain.
And the first acid test of a real situation showed that West's honor was only burnished and decorated dross, while Queed's, which he had made himself, was as fine gold.
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