"All right," said Charlie, "go on with your story. If you make it a good one maybe there'll be somebody around the office'll remember it clear into next week."
Left alone, Peter proceeded at a furious rate. Even Pat was frightened out of interrupting by the beat and pace of the noise which came from the typewriter. If there had been a steam whistle it would have sounded a good deal like a locomotive. Soon Peter called a copy boy and gave him the pages. It had grown almost dark now, but he did not switch on the electric light immediately. From the next room came the clicking sound of telegraph keys.
"Do you hear that," said Peter. "That's magic. Some place there's a war, or a king's just died, or maybe he's only sick and those clicks are telling us about it."
"Did he eat too much ice cream and cake?" asked Pat.
"I don't know. I can't tell till somebody writes it down. You have to make a b c's out of it before anybody except just the man in the room understands about it."
"Come here," said Peter, suddenly getting up from his chair, "you sit down there, Pat."
"I don't want to," said Pat.
"All right, I won't let you sit in my chair."
Pat got up and took the seat.
"Now," said Peter earnestly, "I don't want you to grow up to be a newspaper man, and I don't want you to come into this office after I'm gone."