ter uv
her then. Somethin's wrong somewhere. Dunno what 'tis. She's all upsot.

Poor girl! it had been almost as heavy a trial to her as to me' cutting
me off as she had done. Remembrances of my tender devotion to her, in
all the years between then and childhood, must have made her sore with
pity. I had already determined what I should do, and after Uncle Eb had
gone that evening I wrote her a long letter and asked her if I might not
still have some hope of her loving me. I begged her to let me know when
I might come and talk with her alone. With what eloquence I could bring
to bear I told her how my love had grown and laid hold of my life.

I finished my article that night and, in the morning, took it to Mr
Greeley. He was at his desk writing and at the same time giving orders
in a querulous tone to some workman who sat beside him. He did not
look up as he spoke. He wrote rapidly, his nose down so close to the
straggling, wet lines that I felt a fear of its touching them. I stood
by, waiting my opportunity. A full-bearded man in his shirt-sleeves came
hurriedly out of another room.

'Mr Greeley,' he said, halting at the elbow of the great editor.

'Yes, what is it?' the editor demanded nervously, his hand wobbling over
the white page, as rapidly as before, his eyes upon his work.

'Another man garrotted this morning on South Street.

'Better write a paragraph,' he said, his voice snapping with impatience
as he brushed the full page aside and began sowing his thoughts on
another. 'Warn our readers. Tell 'em to wear brass collars with spikes
in 'em till we get a new mayor.

The man went away laughing.

Mr Greeley threw down his pen, gathered his copy and handed it to the
workman who sat beside him.

'Proof ready at five!' he shouted as the man was going out of the room.

'Hello! Brower,' he said bending to his work again. 'Thought you d blown
out the gas somewhere.

'Waiting until you reject this article,' I said.

He sent a boy for Mr Ottarson, the city editor. Meanwhile he had begun
to drive his pen across the broadsheets with tremendous energy.

Somehow it reminded me of a man ploughing black furrows behind a fast
walking team in a snow flurry. His mind was 'straddle the furrow' when
Mr Ottarson came in. There was a moment of silence in which the latter
stood scanning a page of the Herald he had brought with him.

'Ottarson!' said Mr Greeley, never slacking the pace of his busy hand,
as he held my manu