y at
the clock at three-minute periods and plunge his grimy hand over his
sweating forehead; but the Penguin Person would sit smiling at his
place by the "copy" desk, blue pencil in hand, serene amid the Babel.
And when the tension was greatest, the strain nerve-breaking to get
the big story, in all its complete and coherent details, into the
hungry presses that seemed almost visible, though they waited the
stroke of one, ten stories down, in the sub-basement, the Penguin
Person would sit back in his chair, grin amiably, and say with a
drawl, "Hell, ain't it, fellers? D' you know what I'm going to do
to-morrow, though? I'm going to put on my asbestos collar, side track
some beaut, take her to the theatre, and after the show, thanks to the
princely salary I'm paid for keeping split infinitives out of this
sheet, I'm going to rush her round to Sherry's or Delmonico's and
blow her to a glass of beer and a frankfurter."

Then as if by magic the drawn faces of all his associates would clear,
the night editor would laugh and forget to look at the clock, we would
resume our toil, momentarily forgetful of the high pressure under
which we labored, and working the better for the forgetfulness; and
the Penguin Person, the smile still expanding his mouth, would tilt
down his chair and work with us, only faster. If he had serious
thoughts, he never disclosed them to us--seriously. When he opened his
lips we waited always in the expectation of some ridiculous remark,
even though it should clothe a platitude or a piece of good,
common-sense advice. And we were never disappointed. Life with him was
apparently one huge joke, and it came about that when we thought of
him or spoke of him among ourselves, it was always with a smile. Yet
now he is gone--and what a hole! Other men can do his work as well, if
not as quickly. The paper still goes to press and the public sees no
change; but we, who worked beside him, see it nightly. By twelve
o'clock on a busy night, nervous, drawn faces surround the central
desk, and profanity is snapped crossly back and forth. There is no
alleviation of cheerful inanity. Presently somebody looks up,
remarking, "I wish Bobbie Barton was back." And somebody else replies
with profane asperity and lax grammar, "I wish he was!" Bobbie,
meanwhile has become a lawyer, and can now afford a whole plate of
frankfurters at Delmonico's. But we are the poorer, and, I do not
hesitate to declare, the worse men for the loss