A woman sat beside him talking. An
immense ham lay on the marble top of the steam radiator; a basket of
eggs sat on the floor near Mr Greeley's desk All sorts of merchandise
were sent to the Tribune those days, for notice, and sold at auction, to
members of the staff, by Mr Dana.

'Yes, yes, Madame, go on, I hear you,' said the great editor, as his pen
flew across the white page.

She asked him then for a loan of money. He continued writing but,
presently, his left hand dove into his trousers pocket coming up full of
bills.

'Take what you want,' said he, holding it toward her, 'and please go for
I am very busy.' Whereupon she helped herself liberally and went away.

Seeing me, Mr Greeley came and shook my hand warmly and praised me fer a
good soldier.

'Going down town,' he said in a moment, drawing on his big white
overcoat, 'walk along with me--won't you?

We crossed the park, he leading me with long strides. As we walked
he told how he had been suffering from brain fever. Passing St Paul's
churchyard he brushed the iron pickets with his hand as if to try the
feel of them. Many turned to stare at him curiously. He asked me, soon,
if I would care to do a certain thing for the Tribune, stopping, to look
in at a shop window, as I answered him. I waited while he did his errand
at a Broadway shop; then we came back to the office. The publisher was
in Mr Greeley's room.

'Where's my ham, Dave?' said the editor as he looked at the slab of
marble where the ham had lain.

'Don't know for sure,' said the publisher, 'it's probably up at the
house of the--editor by this time.

'What did you go 'n give it to him for?' drawled Mr Greeley in a tone of
irreparable injury. 'I wanted that ham for myself.

'I didn't give it to him,' said the publisher. 'He came and helped
himself. Said he supposed it was sent in for notice.

'The infernal thief!' Mr Greeley piped with a violent gesture. 'I'll
swear! if I didn't keep my shirt buttoned tight they'd have that, too.

The ham was a serious obstacle in the way of my business and it went
over until evening. But that and like incidents made me to know the man
as I have never seen him pictured--a boy grown old and grey, pushing the
power of manhood with the ardours of youth.

I resumed work on the Tribune that week. My first assignment was a mass
meeting in a big temporary structure--then called a wigwam--over in
Brooklyn. My political life began that day and all by an odd chanc