“This is the office of the Free Press, is it not?” she said.
“Yes ’m. What kin we do for you?”
“I’m not sure. A great deal, I hope.... I am Carmel Lee—the—the new editor of this paper.”
In his astonishment Tubal pointed a lean, inky finger at the tip of her nose, and poked it at her twice before he could speak. “You!... You!” he said, and then swallowed hard, and felt as if he were unpleasantly suspended between heaven and earth with nothing to do or say.
“I,” she answered.
Tubal swung his head slowly and glared at Simmy, evidently laying the blame for this dénoûement upon the boy’s shoulders.
“Git out of here,” he whispered, hoarsely, “and for Gawd’s sake—wash your face.”
Simmy vanished, and Tubal, praying for succor, remained, nonplused, speechless for once.
“Is that my desk?” asked Miss Lee. “Um!...” Then she won Tubal’s undying devotion at a single stroke. “I presume,” she said, “you are foreman of the composing room.”
He nodded dumbly.