“There is no use talking about this matter any longer. You go to your desk and write this thing and have your copy ready as soon as possible.”
“I can’t write it,” said Herbert, now speaking in a voice that was scarcely audible.
Blakeley was silent, trying hard to control his rising passion. When he spoke his voice sounded almost like a hiss.
“You understand what this means, don’t you--you know what it will cost you?”
“Yes,” said Herbert, looking up; “I understand, and I resign my position as a reporter on the Argus.”
“Your resignation is accepted,” said the other shortly; “but I call upon you to do the work that you were assigned to perform, before leaving this office.”
“I can’t do it,” said Herbert; “on my honor I cannot do it.”
Herbert looked up helplessly. For a moment a desire to tell the whole story to Blakeley took possession of him. The next minute it was dismissed as impracticable. Blakeley was a man without any heart or feeling. He felt convinced of this, and felt likewise that if the facts were once in the city editor’s possession the story would have to be written regardless of the private anguish it might cause. So he stood there speechless before his superior.
“Go!” finally shouted Blakeley, pointing to the door. “But when you go remember that you go in disgrace. You are like an engineer who would leave his train in the middle of the journey, or a pilot who would desert his ship in a storm at sea. Go, and never let me see you again.”
Herbert left the room with a flushed face and downcast eyes. He avoided the elevator. The thought of meeting with anyone at a time like this grated upon his feelings. He walked down the stairway with a heart as heavy as lead. He felt mortified and angry by turns. He mentally blamed Blakeley for his coarse manner and the ugly scolding he had given him. The next second he admitted to himself that Blakeley was fully justified in what he had said and done. Indeed, from the standpoint of the news and of duty, he could find no possible justification for his own conduct.
Presently he got out into Park Row and was soon in the midst of the pushing, bustling crowd. It was quite dark now, and the rush to the bridge was at its height. Myriads of electric lights shone brightly all about him. Cars rushed by, with motormen sounding their gongs continuously. Wagon drivers shouted and shrieked and pulled at their horses, and thousands of pedestrians laughed and shouted as they hurriedly went their way. Herbert, in a vague sort of way, wondered how they could all be so happy when he felt so miserable. Nothing seemed the same to him. Some mysterious change appeared to have overcome the face of New York since he had left his home early that morning; but in reality things moved on as before. Herbert’s philosophy did not realize that the world moves on day by day and night by night, regardless of the joys or the woes of the individual.