Moreover, he was flattered, as we always are, when our judgments have
proved right. Stanton had deliberately set out to find the real
Shelby--and he had.
"A man who can write as he can has something in him--that I know," he
had said generously more than once. He made us see that he had not been
wrong.
But it was not the real Shelby that returned to the office. That is
where he missed his great opportunity. Back strutted the pompous,
stained-glass, pitiful imitation of an Englishman, in a louder suit than
ever, and with a big new cane that made the old one look flimsy.
We despised him more than ever. For we would have taken him within our
little circle gladly after Stanton's sure report; and there would have
been chance after chance for him to make good with us. But no; he
preferred the pose of aloofness, and his face betrayed that he was
ashamed of that one night's weakness. He never alluded to his evening
with Stanton; and when Minckle, who was certain the ice had been broken,
put his arm around his shoulder the next day, he looked and drawled,
"I say, old top, I wish you wouldn't."
Of course that finished him with us.
"He can go to the devil," we said.
We wanted him fired, obliterated; but the very next evening there was a
murder in Harlem, and old Hanscher sent Shelby to cover it, and his
first-page story was the talk of the town.
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