Room 36 seemed acres big to Tom as he closed the door behind him. Some dozen men and youths occupied the apartments and to the nearest of these Tom applied. He was not much over Tom's age and was busily engaged in cutting a newspaper into shreds with a pair of extraordinarily large shears. When interrupted he looked up carelessly but good naturedly and pointed to a far corner of the room.
"That's the city ed; the fellow with the glasses."
Tom thanked him and went on.
The man with the glasses took no notice of his approach but continued his writing, puffing the while on a very black briar pipe. He was apparently about thirty-five years of age, had a fierce and bristling mustache, and rushed his pencil vindictively across the copy paper as though he were writing the death sentence of his worst enemy.
"Well?"
Tom started. The voice was as savage as the man's appearance, and Tom's heart sank within him.
"What do you want?" The editor's forehead was a mass of wrinkles and his eyes glared threateningly from behind his glasses. Tom found his voice and laid the letter on the desk.
"Humph," said the editor. He read the short message and tossed it aside.
"Ever done newspaper work?" he asked.
"No, sir," Tom replied.
"Then what do you want to begin for?"