"No," Kittredge answered with a faint smile. "I hand it in to Mr.
Bowring--the City Editor, you know. And when the copyreaders come at six,
it will be turned over to one of them. He reads it, cuts it down if
necessary, and writes headlines for it. Then it goes upstairs to the
composing room--see the box, the little dumb-waiter, over there in the
wall?--well, it goes up by that to the floor above where they set the type
and make up the forms."

"I'm a complete ignoramus," said Howard, "I hope you'll not mind my trying
to find out things. I hope I shall not bore you."

"Glad to help you, I'm sure. I had to go through this two years ago when I
came here from Princeton."

Kittredge "turned in" his copy and returned to his seat beside Howard.

"What were you writing about, if I may ask?" inquired Howard.

"About some snakes that came this morning in a 'tramp' from South America.
One of them, a boa constrictor, got loose and coiled around a windlass. The
cook was passing and it caught him. He fainted with fright and the beast
squeezed him to death. It's a fine story--lots of amusing and dramatic
details. I wrote it for a column and I think they won't cut it. I hope not,
anyhow. I need the money."

"You are paid by the column?"

"Yes. I'm on space--what they call a space writer. If a man is of any
account here they gradually raise him to twenty-five dollars a week and