e pages of the Final edition of the paper,
which had just come up from the press-room. After the turmoil of the
day the room had quieted, most of the reporters had left, and the
shaded lamps shone upon empty tables and a floor strewn ankle-deep with
papers. Nearby sat the city editor, checking over the list of
assignments for the next morning. From an adjoining kennel issued
occasional deep groans and a strong whiff of savage shag tobacco, blown
outward by the droning gust of an electric fan. These proved that the
cartoonist (a man whose sprightly drawings were born to an obbligato of
vehement blasphemy) was at work within.

Mr. Bleak was just beginning to recuperate from the incessant vigilance
of the day's work. There was an unconscious pathos in his lean,
desiccated figure as he rose and crossed the room to the green glass
drinking-fountain. After the custom of experienced newspapermen, he
rapidly twirled a makeshift cup out of a sheet of copy paper. He poured
himself a draught of clear but rather tepid water, and drank it without
noticeable relish. His lifted head betrayed only the automatic
thankfulness of the domestic fowl. There had been a time when six
o'clock meant something better than a paper goblet of lukewarm
filtration.

He sat down at his desk again. He had loaded his pipe sedulously with
an extra fine blend which he kept in his desk drawer for smoking during
rare moments of relaxation when he had leisure to savor it. As he
reached for a match he was meditating a genial remark to the city
editor, when he discovered that there was only one tandsticker in the
box. He struck it, and the blazing head flew off upon the cream-colored
thigh of his Palm Beach suit. His naturally placid temper, undermined
by thirty years of newspaper work and two years of prohibition, flamed
up also. With a loud scream of rage and a curse against Sweden, he
leaped to his feet and shook the glowing cinder from his person. Facing
him he found a stranger who had entered the room quietly and unobserved.

This was a huge man, clad in a sober uniform of gray cloth, with silver
buttons and silver braid. A Sam Browne belt of wide blue leather
marched across his extensive diagonal in a gentle curve. The band of
his vizored military cap showed the initials C.P.H. in silver
embroidery. His face, broad and clean-shaven, shone with a lustre which
was partly warmth and partly simple friendliness. Save for a certain
humility of bearing, he mi