"Top flat, across the alley from the Grand Pacific."
"That's a five-story building, isn't it?"
"That's what it is."
Corkey is busy fixing his telegrams for the printer. He is trying to learn what the current date is, and is unwilling to ask.
The night editor is thinking of Mrs. Corkey, a handsome little woman, for whom the "boys in the office" have a pleasant regard.
"Is there an elevator?"
"I didn't see no elevator when I was carrying the kitchen stove in."
"How will Mrs. Corkey get up?"
This is too much. Corkey has made a hundred trips to the new abode, each time laden with some heavy piece of furniture or package of goods. How will Mrs. Corkey get there, when Corkey has been up and down the docks from the north pier to the lumber district on Ashland avenue, and all since supper?
The marine editor sits back rigidly in his chair. The head quakes, the tongue plays, he looks defiantly at the night editor.