"Victory! We are seventy-two cents ahead on the week, and everything paid
up!"
Mr. King opened his eyes--they had been closed less than five seconds.
"Well, let it be twenty--though just why I'm sure I don't know. And we'll
give you a four weeks' trial. When will you begin?"
"Now," answered the young man, glancing about the room. "And I shall try to
show that I appreciate your consideration, whether I deserve it or not."
It was a large bare room, low of ceiling. Across one end were five windows
overlooking from a great height the tempest that rages about the City Hall
day and night with few lulls and no pauses. Mr. King's roll-top desk was at
the first window. Under each of the other windows was a broad flat table
desk--for copy-readers. At the farthest of these sat the City Editor--thin,
precise-looking, with yellow skin, hollow cheeks, ragged grey-brown
moustache, ragged scant grey-brown hair and dark brown eyes. He looked
nervously tired and, because brown was his prevailing shade, dusty. He rose
as Mr. King came with young Howard.
"Here, Mr. Bowring, is a young man from Yale. He wishes you to teach him
how to write. Mr. Howard, Mr. Bowring. I hope you gentlemen will get on
comfortably together."
Mr. King went back to his desk.
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