'Better write a paragraph,' he said, his voice snapping with impatience as he brushed the full page aside and began sowing his thoughts on another. 'Warn our readers. Tell 'em to wear brass collars with spikes in 'em till we get a new mayor.
The man went away laughing.
Mr Greeley threw down his pen, gathered his copy and handed it to the workman who sat beside him.
'Proof ready at five!' he shouted as the man was going out of the room.
'Hello! Brower,' he said bending to his work again. 'Thought you'd blown out the gas somewhere.
'Waiting until you reject this article,' I said.
He sent a boy for Mr Ottarson, the city editor. Meanwhile he had begun to drive his pen across the broadsheets with tremendous energy.
Somehow it reminded me of a man ploughing black furrows behind a fast walking team in a snow flurry. His mind was 'straddle the furrow' when Mr Ottarson came in. There was a moment of silence in which the latter stood scanning a page of the Herald he had brought with him.
'Ottarson!' said Mr Greeley, never slacking the pace of his busy hand, as he held my manuscript in the other, 'read this. Tell me what you think of it. If good, give him a show.
'The staff is full, Mr Greeley,' said the man of the city desk. His words cut me with disappointment.