but each rasps his iron type-stick across a thin partition of his type
case. It is a small horse-fiddle. The combined effect is impressive,
chaotic.

The night foreman rages internally. He stalks about with baleful eye.
"Buck in, you fellows," he says. "The paper is behind."

"I wish it would kill him," the night foreman says of Corkey.

There is silence in the telegraph-room. The tinkle of the horse-cars
comes up audibly from the street. The night editor knows what has
happened, to the slightest detail. He mentally sees the night foreman
standing in the shadows of the parlor (wash-place) laughing to kill.
The night editor grows still more unctuous.

"From earthquakes, hailstorms and early frosts," he prays, "good Lord,
deliver us."

"Good Lord, deliver us!" comes the solemn antiphone of the telegraph
editor, the assistant telegraph editor, Corkey and the copy boy.

The chinchilla coat is off. This is manifestly a hard way to earn a
living for a candidate for Congress, a dark horse for the legislature
and a marine editor who has run his legs off all day.

"He's been moving," the boy whispers to the night editor.

The night editor scans the dark face. It is serious enough. It is the
night editor's method to rule his people by the moderation of his
speech. In this way they do all the work and thank him for keeping his