"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
nose out of affairs.

"We hear, commodore, that you have moved your household gods."

"Yes," grunts Corkey. To the jam-jorum Corkey must be civil, as he
will tell you.

"Where to?"

"Top flat, across the alley from the Grand Pacific."

"That's a five-story building, isn't it?"

"That's what it is."

Corkey is busy fixing his telegrams for the printer. He is trying to
learn what the current date is, and is unwilling to ask.

The night editor is thinking of Mrs. Corkey, a handsome little woman,
for whom the "boys in the office" have a pleasant regard.

"Is there an elevator?"

"I didn't see no elevator when I was carrying the kitchen stove in."

"How will Mrs. Corkey get up?"

This is too much. Corkey has made a hundred trips to the new abode,
each time laden with some heavy piece of furniture or package of goods.
How will Mrs. Corkey get there, when Corkey has been up and down the
docks from the north pier to the lumber district on Ashland avenue, and
all since supper?

The marine editor sits back rigidly in his chair. The head quakes, the
tongue plays, he looks defiantly at the night editor.

"She's coming," says the assistant telegraph editor, holding down his
shears and paste-pot.

The head quakes, but it is not a sneeze. It is a deliverance, _ex
cathedra_. The night editor wants to hear it.

"You bet your sweet life, Mrs. Corkey," says the commodore, "screw her
nut up four flight of stairs. That's what Mrs. Corkey do!"

The compliments of the evening are over. It is a straining of every
nerve now to get a good first edition for the fast train.

"Gale to-night, Corkey," says the telegraph editor. "We've taken most
of your stuff for the front page. The display head isn't long enough.
Write me another line for it."

"Hain't got nothing to write," Corkey doesn't like to have his report
taken ou