“Of course, but what shall it be?”
The two were battling with this question when the city editor returned. He came in and said quietly:
“I found the notice. At least, I suppose this is it. What is the old man's full name?”
“Horace W. Croydon.”
“This is it, then,” said the city editor, standing with his back to the door. “The notice reads: 'On March 3d, at the Arlington Hospital for Incurables, Rachel, widow of the late Horace W. Croydon, Sr., in her 59th year. Funeral services at the residence of Charles—'”
“Why,” interrupted the editorial writer, in a hushed voice, “that is a death notice.”
“His mother,” said the exchange editor. “The Hospital for Incurables—that is where the flowers went.”
The editorial writer's glance dropped to the desk, where the money lay for the intended gift. The exchange editor sat perfectly still, gazing straight in front of him. The city editor walked softly to the window and looked out.