nd waved a cloud of smoke away with the palm of his hand.

"That you, Mrs. Orme?" he called out. "Lord, we've missed you! That new
woman can't write an obituary, and her teary tales sound like they were
carved with a cold chisel. When are you coming back?"

"I'm not coming back," I replied. "I've come to say good-by to you
and--Blackie."

Norberg looked up quickly. "You feel that way, too? Funny. So do the
rest of us. Sometimes I think we are all half sure that it is only
another of his impish tricks, and that some morning he will pop open the
door of the city room here and call out, 'Hello, slaves! Been keepin' m'
memory green?'"

I held out my hand to him, gratefully. He took it in his great palm,
and a smile dimpled his plump cheeks. "Going to blossom into a regular
little writer, h'm? Well, they say it's a paying game when you get the
hang of it. And I guess you've got it. But if ever you feel that you
want a real thrill--a touch of the old satisfying newspaper feeling--a
sniff of wet ink--the music of some editorial cussing--why come up here
and I'll give you the hottest assignment on my list, if I have to take
it away from Deming's very notebook."

When I had thanked him I crossed the hall and tried the door of the
sporting editor's room. Von Gerhard was waiting for me far down at the
other end of the corridor. The door opened and I softly entered and shut
it again. The little room was dim, but in the half-light I could see
that Callahan had changed something--had shoved a desk nearer the
window, or swung the typewriter over to the other side. I resented it. I
glanced up at the corner where the shabby old office coat had been wont
to hang. There it dangled, untouched, just as he had left it. Callahan
had not dared to change that. I tip-toed over to the corner and touched
it gently with my fingers. A light pall of dust had settled over the
worn little garment, but I knew each worn place, each ink-spot, each
scorch or burn from pipe or cigarette. I passed my hands over it
reverently and gently, and then, in the dimness of that quiet little
room I laid my cheek against the rough cloth, so that the scent of the
old black pipe came back to me once more, and a new spot appeared on the
coat sleeve--a damp, salt spot. Blackie would have hated my doing that.
But he was not there to see, and one spot more or less did not matter;
it was such a grimy, disreputable old coat.

"Dawn!" called Von Gerhard softly, outside th