"I wish it would kill him," the night foreman says of Corkey.
There is silence in the telegraph-room. The tinkle of the horse-cars comes up audibly from the street. The night editor knows what has happened, to the slightest detail. He mentally sees the night foreman standing in the shadows of the parlor (wash-place) laughing to kill. The night editor grows still more unctuous.
"From earthquakes, hailstorms and early frosts," he prays, "good Lord, deliver us."
"Good Lord, deliver us!" comes the solemn antiphone of the telegraph editor, the assistant telegraph editor, Corkey and the copy boy.
The chinchilla coat is off. This is manifestly a hard way to earn a living for a candidate for Congress, a dark horse for the legislature and a marine editor who has run his legs off all day.
"He's been moving," the boy whispers to the night editor.
The night editor scans the dark face. It is serious enough. It is the night editor's method to rule his people by the moderation of his speech. In this way they do all the work and thank him for keeping his nose out of affairs.
"We hear, commodore, that you have moved your household gods."
"Yes," grunts Corkey. To the jam-jorum Corkey must be civil, as he will tell you.
"Where to?"