tossed down his scissors and went up to the desk to take an assignment.
"Good-morning. Who's that you're talking about?" Another reporter had joined the group, taking off his coat.
"Billy Woods."
"Why, I saw him a minute ago in the drug store drinking bromo-seltzer. Here he is now."
Woods was bending over the latch of the little gate that kept those who had no right to go inside from those who had.
The gate shut with a click behind him, and, looking scholarly and dignified, he marched straight up the room for the city editor's desk, rapping the floor with his cane at every two steps. His glasses were tipped forward at an angle so that he had to elevate his chin to focus through them, and he did not even see his friends as he strode up between the rows of desks, hurrying with his whole body.
"R-E-morse," said Jones, with the high collar.
Sampson was still standing beside the city editor, listening to instructions as to the
8
