THE GENIUSES OF
THE SUN
After years in the turmoil of metropolitan journalism, a man goes back to the country paper of his youth in search of a job, a restful atmosphere, and—a girl.
HE swinging door of the city editor's office creaked half open and Henshaw's tow-haired copy kid stuck his head out into the city room. "Stratton!" he called, and the occupant of the seat by the window dropped the paper he had been pretending to read and shuffled to his feet. His gaze roved about the all but deserted city room; its few occupants were busy and none looked up, which fact caused Stratton to smile faintly. They were good fellows, he reflected—none better—and he was thankful to them for pretending to be unconscious of his humiliation, though their deception fooled no one.
They knew what was coming; knew it as well as Stratton himself. Since that day, a week before, when the stockholders, dissatisfied with their last semi-annual dividend checks, had shifted directors and demanded a cut in expenses—since that day, the one question in the minds of the city room had been, "Who?" And now that question had been answered.
When Henshaw, giving out the assignments ten minutes before, had sent White out on the Hyde Street murder case, those who were of the old guard exchanged knowing glances, for the day's big story—especially if it were of the "violence" type—generally went to Stratton. And, as one by one the reporters got into their overcoats and stamped out on their assignments and still Stratton remained reading his paper at the desk by the window, even the greenest of the cubs realized who was to be let out. Stratton passed into the city editor's office, the swinging door closed behind him, and two minutes later, he stepped out again into the city room.
Henshaw had been very kind, in fact, had come closer to an expression of human emotion than Stratton, after seven years of nightly association, had deemed him capable. But Stratton was the highest paid member of the staff and Henshaw must reduce the payroll, though he could not manage with fewer men. A second-rate man could be hired on half Stratton's salary, and the other half added to the dividend checks of the stockholders. Henshaw had fully explained the situation, and they had risen to their feet and gripped hands.
Stratton straightened up his desk, sweeping the mutilated sheets of yellow copy paper that littered its top to the floor; gathered up a few personal trifles and left.
