A boy brings in a special telegram. The night editor opens and reads it, and then springs to his feet. He grasps a handful of his hair and kicks his chair ten feet away. “——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ———” he yells. “Listen to this.”
It is a special by wire from a country correspondent. This is what it says: “Spring has opened here. The birds are singing merrily in the trees and the peach trees are in full bloom. The weather has moderated considerably and the farmers are hopeful. The fruit crop will be assured unless we should have a cold snap sufficient to injure the buds.”
“——— ——— ——— ——— ——— ———” remarks the night editor again, and then, his vocabulary failing to express his feelings, he bites his cigar in two and sits down again.
A man in a seedy frock coat and a big walking cane saunters in and draws a chair close to the night editor’s desk.
“When I was with Lee in the Valley of Virginia—” he begins.
“I am sorry you are not with him now,” says the night editor.
The visitor sighs, borrows a cigar and a match, and drifts out to see if he can get the ear of someone of a more indulgent temper.
Between 1 and 2 o’clock the city editor and his assistants are through their work, the railroad man turns in “30” and they troop away, leaving the night editor to remain until the last.
In the composing room the printers have been working away since 7 o’clock on their keyboards like so many Paderewskis. They quit about 3:30 a.m. As the night editor leaves, another army has begun its march. These are the people who rise at 2 or 3 o’clock in the morning. The mailing clerks are preparing the papers for the out-of-town mails; the newsboys are crowding around for their papers, and abroad in the land are audible the first faint sounds of the coming day.
Wheels are rattling over the dark streets. The milk man is abroad, and the butcher’s cart is making its rounds. Policemen relax their vigilance, and around the coffee stands is gathered quite a crowd of night workers who drop in for something hot before going home.