indeed,â agreed Ogilvie; and somehow the well-worn phrase seemed to have been used by the one and accepted by the other more literally than is generally the case.
2
On any Saturday morning the huge building occupied by Consolidated Periodicals Ltd. is a centre of activity. A couple of months ago this activity had been not unpleasurable. Enlivened by thoughts of leisure ahead, assistant editors of the bright weeklies in which Consolidated Periodicals specialised would stop for a chat with the lady secretaries past whose desks their way took them; art editors would pause to exchange a quick story with film reviewers; even editors would swing their umbrellas with a more jaunty air, for the editors at Consolidated Periodicals are not a haughty lot of men.
But on this particular Saturday morning, as indeed for the last five Saturday mornings, there were no such pleasant interludes. Assistant editors dashed past secretaries with a frown of preoccupation, as if intent only upon reaching their desks; art editors and film reviewers alike wore expressions intended to convey that work and the firmâs interests were the only preoccupations of their minds; and editors walked delicately and with reluctance. There was indeed a hum of activity throughout the warren of offices, but its note was sharp now with fear. In one or two of the cubbyholes in which the main work was carried on the note was even shrill with something very like hysteria.
Very soon rumours were spreading.
On the third floor young Bennett, assistant editor of the Peepshow, had hardly settled himself at his table, exceedingly conscious of arriving there ten minutes late, when the door opened and the tall figure of Owen Staithes, the art editor, came into the room.
âOh, about those blocks for the centre page, Benney,â he began loudly and then, as the door closed behind him, changed abruptly to a lower tone. âNot got yours?â
âNot yet. Has anyone?â
âNot that Iâve heard. Itâs a bit early yet.â
âHe usually sends them round about eleven.â
âYes.â Staithes fiddled with the coins in his pocket. He looked worried. âDamn these Saturday mornings. Iâve got the wind up, badly.â Staithes was married and had a small son.
âOh, youâre safe enough.â
âAm I? What about poor old Gregory last week? Itâs my belief he wants to be rid of all us art editors.â
âBut youâre doing Gregâs work. He couldnât leave the Housewife as well as the Peepshow without an art editor.â
âGod knows what he could do.â Staithes kicked moodily at the leg of Bennettâs table. âSeen Mac yet?â
âNo. I say, I was ten minutes late.â
âThe devil you were. Did you run into him?â
âNo. But I had to pass his door and itâs my belief he can see clean through it. Iâm expecting a chit at any minute.â
âDonât be an ass. . .. Oh, hullo, young Butts.â
Young Butts, so known to distinguish him from his uncle, the editor of Film Fancy, sidled in with an uneasy grin.
âHullo, chaps. I say, is it true that Fletcherâs got his?â
âFletcher? Surely not.â Staithes looked surprised. âWhat would the Sunday Messenger be without Fletcher?â
âYou might just as well have asked a month ago what it would be like without Purefoy, or what the Film Trader would be without Fitch. Dash it, Fitch founded the thing and ran it for twenty years at a pretty useful profit; but that didnât save him.â
âItâs the devil,â muttered Staithes.
There was a knock at the door and a girl looked in, pencil and notebook still in her hands. She was a pretty girl, but the men looked at her as if she were Medusa herself.
âMr Bennett, Mr Fisher wants to see you at once in his room.â
Bennett stood up awkwardly. âMe-me?â he stammered.
âYes.â A look
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