For this interview with "Mr. Love," Jeffrey was willing to offer Hope a two-dollar stipend.
It was a generous sum. Hope would earn exactly two dollars for translating all twenty pages of August's work.
Hope didn't know whether the payment was in keeping with the rules of journalism.
But he suspected this was probably Jeffrey's personal gesture. The stipend he'd offered Hope had likely come out of his own pocket, with no way to claim it back from the Press Club.
Hope could guess why Jeffrey was willing to pay up, and what he was hoping for.
Probably some melodramatic story about the son of a fallen noble family, an unparalleled heir to some school of thought, or a pharmacology manual found beneath a cliff. Or perhaps an inspiring tale about a young man born frail, who faced life with courage and perseverance.
But "Mr. Love" was nothing more than an empty shell, a name Hope had made up on a whim the night before. If anyone looked into it, they'd find nothing behind the name. There was no story.
So Hope declined.
"All right." Jeffrey sighed and nodded. "I hope I haven't offended you."
Jeffrey blinked, his gaze sincere. What he didn't say was that he'd still write an article for the campus newspaper, just without as many details.
He watched "Mr. Love" switch the key to his other hand and walk away beneath his black umbrella.
Although Love had been unwilling to tell him anything, Jeffrey could tell from his face alone that Love was probably around his own age.
Someone like him having such an illness—and not even knowing how to read—was only to be expected.
Jeffrey felt his curiosity growing. A journalist couldn't suppress his curiosity. Still, he gave up on following Love; getting caught once