One afternoon in March the editor was sitting before his deal table, apparently in the most violent throes of editorial composition.
Nick, who was impatiently waiting for copy, had not dared to speak for an hour, for fear of slipping a cog in the intricate machinery of creation. The constant struggle to supply “The Opp Eagle” with sufficient material to enable it to fly every Thursday was telling upon the staff; he was becoming irritable.
“Well?” he said impatiently, as Mr. Opp finished the tenth page and gathered the large sheets into his hand.
“Yes, yes, to be sure,” said Mr. Opp, guiltily; “I am at your disposal. Just [p207] finishing a little private correspondence of a personal nature that couldn’t wait over.”
“Ain’t that copy?” demanded Nick, fixing him with an indignant eye.
“Well, no,” said Mr. Opp, uneasily. “The fact is, I haven’t been able to accomplish any regular editorial this week. Unusual pressure of outside business and—er—”
“How long is she going to stay down in Coreyville?” Nick asked, with a contemptuous curl of his lip.
Mr. Opp paused in the act of addressing the envelop, and gave Nick a look that was designed to scorch.
“May I inquire to who you refer?” he asked with dignity.
Nick’s eyes dropped, and he shuffled his feet. “I just wanted to put it in the paper. We got to fill up with something.”