Ing exasperated by her husba

[Gibeaut]

 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 
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