“See here, young fellow!” The editor slammed down the last sheet of his revised story, and turned upon his assistant a square, bony, aggressive face that gave a sense of having been modelled by a clinched fist, and of still glowering at the blow. He had gray eyes that gleamed dogmatically from behind thick glasses, and hair that brush could not subdue. “See here, Billy Harper, will you please go to hell!”
“Sure; follow you anywhere, Arn,” returned Billy pleasantly, holding out his cigarette case.
“You little Chicago alley cat, you!” growled Bruce. He took a cigarette, broke it open and poured the tobacco into a black pipe, which he lit. “Well—turn up anything?”
“Governor can’t come,” replied the reporter, lighting a fresh cigarette.
“Hard luck. But we’ll have the crowd anyhow. Blake tell you anything else?”
“He didn’t tell me that. His stenographer did; she’d opened the Governor’s telegram. Blake’s in Indianapolis to-day—looking after his chances for the Senate, I suppose.”
“See Doctor West?”
“Went to his house first. But as usual he wouldn’t say a thing. That old boy is certainly the mildest mannered hero of the day I ever went up against. The way he does dodge the spot-light!—it’s enough to make one of your prima donna politicians die of heart failure. To do a great piece of work, and then be as modest about it as he is—well, Arn, I sure am for that old doc!”
“Huh!” grunted the editor.