“Katie’s” sits, sedate and serviceable, on a narrow side street so near to Park Row that the big table in the rear rattles its dishes when the presses begin their seismic rumblings, in the daily effort to shake the world. Here gather the pick and choice of New York journalism, while still on duty, to eat and drink and discuss the inner news of things which is so often much more significant than the published version; haply to win or lose a few swiftly earned dollars at pass-three hearts. It is the unofficial press club of Newspaper Row.
Said McHale of The Sphere, who, having been stuck with the queen of spades—that most unlucky thirteener—twice in succession, was retiring on his losses, to Mallory of The Ledger who had just come in:
“I hear you’ve got a sucking genius at your shop.”
“If you mean Banneker, he’s weaned,” replied the assistant city editor of The Ledger. “He goes on space next week.”
“Does he, though! Quick work, eh?”
“A record for the office. He’s been on the staff less than a year.”
“Is he really such a wonder?” asked Glidden of The Monitor.
Three or four Ledger men answered at once, citing various stories which had stirred the interest of Park Row.
“Oh, you Ledger fellows are always giving the college yell for each other,” said McHale, impatiently voicing the local jealousy of The Ledger’s recognized esprit de corps. “I’ve seen bigger rockets than him come down in the ash-heap.”
“He won’t,” prophesied Tommy Burt, The Ledger’s humorous specialist. “He’ll go up and stay up. High! He’s got the stuff.”