They climbed up two narrow stairs in an ugly old building, and entered a large gas-lit room full of desks. Many young men were writing or moving about; several were in their shirt sleeves.
“This is the City room,” said Miss Merrien, “and these are the reporters. Those men in that little room there are the editors and editorial writers. Mr. Field’s room is just beyond. Now send your card in by this boy. The Chief’s harder to see than the President of the United States, but I guess he’ll see you.”
Patience gave the boy her card, and at the end of half an hour, during which she was much stared at by some of the men and totally ignored by others, the boy returned and conducted her to Mr. Field’s office.
It was a typical editor’s den of the old-fashioned type. A big desk covered with papers, a revolving chair, and one other chair completed the furniture. A large cat was walking about, switching its tail. The floor was bare. The light straggled down between the tall buildings surrounding, and entered through small windows. It was Mr. Field’s pride to have the greatest newspaper and the most unpretentious “shop” in the United States.
He rose as Patience entered, his eyes twinkling.
“Well,” he said, as he handed her the extra chair, “there’s a mighty row on, isn’t there? Peele has been here, and now we do not speak as we pass by. But we hadn’t had a good woman sensation for a month. I tried to explain that to Peele, but it didn’t seem to impress him. I suppose you’ve come to beg for mercy.”
“No—I haven’t come for that.”
“Why, what is the matter? I never saw you look the least bit rattled before. You are always the young queen with a court of us old fellows at your feet. But tell me; you know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”
Patience drew a long breath of relief.
“Oh, you make it easier—I’ve been horribly frightened. But I’ll get to the point—I suppose you’re very busy down here. Can I have ten minutes?”