“Isn’t New York wonderful?” she said in a deep voice full of emotion.
“Yes,” the old man agreed. “It’s wonderful when you’re young. But don’t stay too long.”
“Why—why not?” she was puzzled.
“New York takes you by the hand and whirls you ’round and ’round. It’s very wild and gay and it makes you drunk. But bye and bye—well,” he sighed, “look at me. You’d never guess it but I was once a reporter on that very paper you bought. It whirls you ’round and ’round.” His voice cracked. “Don’t stay too long, child. Don’t stay too long.”
“A reporter!” Florence exclaimed. “I knew a reporter. He went away to New York, Peter Kepple.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man sighed, “I knew him here. He died—let me see, two years ago. Don’t stay too long, Miss.”
Then his shrill old voice rose above the rush and roar of New York.
“Paper! Paper! Get your evening paper here.”
When they were half a block away Florence seemed to hear him calling, “Don’t stay too long.” How long was too long? She did not know.