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Updated: May 20, 2025
Opposite him, evidently in the act of taking his leave was a comfortable-looking man of middle age with a red face and a short beard. He left as Roland entered and Roland was surprized to see Mr. Petheram spring to his feet, shake his fist at the closing door, and kick the wall with a vehemence which brought down several inches of discolored plaster.
Petheram greeted Roland with a joyous enthusiasm which the hound Argus, on the return of Ulysses, might have equalled but could scarcely have surpassed. It seemed to be Mr. Petheram's considered opinion that God was in His Heaven and all was right with the world. Roland's attempts to correct this belief fell on deaf ears.
"You aren't pulling my leg?" Roland nodded. Mr. Petheram appeared to struggle with his conscience, and finally to be worsted by it, for his next remarks were limpidly honest. "Don't you be an ass," he said. "You don't know what you're letting yourself in for. Did you see that blighter who went out just now? Do you know who he is? That's the fellow we've got to pay five pounds a week to for life."
As for editing, what I don't know about editing but perhaps you had got somebody else in your mind?" "No, no," said Roland, who would not have known an editor from an office-boy. The thought of interviewing prospective editors appalled him. "Very well, then," resumed Mr. Petheram, reassured, kicking over a heap of papers to give more room for his feet. "Take it that I continue as editor.
"Are you sure that the present proprietors will want to sell?" "Want to sell," cried Mr. Petheram enthusiastically. "Why, if they know you want to buy, you've as much chance of getting away from them without the paper as as well, I can't think of anything that has such a poor chance of anything. If you aren't quick on your feet, they'll cry on your shoulder.
It was true that his capital was more than equal to the, on the whole, modest demands of the paper, but that did not alter the fact that he was wasting money. Mr. Petheram always talked buoyantly about turning the corner, but the corner always seemed just as far off. The old idea of flight, to which he invariably had recourse in any crisis, came upon Roland with irresistible force.
"Take a seat," he said, when he had finished this performance. "What can I do for you?" Roland had always imagined that editors in their private offices were less easily approached and, when approached, more brusk. The fact was that Mr. Petheram, whose optimism nothing could quench, had mistaken him for a prospective advertiser. "I want to buy the paper," said Roland.
He was aware that this was an abrupt way of approaching the subject, but, after all, he did want to buy the paper, so why not say so? Mr. Petheram fizzed in his chair. He glowed with excitement. "Do you mean to tell me there's a single book-stall in London which has sold out? Great Scott, perhaps they've all sold out! How many did you try?" "I mean buy the whole paper.
Something in the girl's expression stung Roland. She wore a rapt look, as if she were dreaming of the absent Petheram, confound him. He would show her that Petheram was not the only man worth looking rapt about. He rose. "Would you mind giving me your address?" he said. "Why?" "In order," said Roland carefully, "that I may offer you your former employment on 'Squibs. I am going to buy it."
I know it by heart. Do you mean to say that, after an article like that, they actually sacked you? Threw you out as a failure?" "Oh, they didn't send me away for incompetence. It was simply because they couldn't afford to keep me on. Mr. Petheram was very nice about it." "Who's Mr. Petheram?" "Mr. Petheram's everything.
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