"
"And there's no other way, Dave," said Conward, rising and placing an
arm on his partner's shoulder, "I sympathize with your point of view,
but, my boy, it's pure sentiment, and sentiment has no place in
business. And you remember the terms of our partnership, don't you?"
Dave hesitated a few moments, as he threw his mind back over the years
that had gone by since the day when Conward proposed a partnership to
him. He saw again his little office where he ground out "stuff" for
_The Call_, the littered desk and floor, the cartoons on the walls, the
big shears, and the paste pot--yes, the paste pot, and the lock he had
installed to protect it, and his select file of time copy, from
depredation. And the smell of printer's ink; even yet, when business
took Dave into a printing office, the smell of ink brought back those
old, happy days. Happy days? When he worked more hours than a man
should work, for less salary than a man should get; when the glorious
out-of-doors called him and his soul rebelled against the despotism of
fate! Yes, surely they were happy days. He smiled a moment as he
thought of them; paused to dally with them on his way to an answer for
Conward; then skimmed quickly down the surface of events to this
present evening. More wonderful had the years been than any dream of
fiction; no wizard's wand had ever worked richer magic. . . .
"You remember, don't you?" Conward repeated.
"Oh, about the coal?" Dave laughed.
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