He hurried on to Park Row, and found himself surrounded by the very newsboys he had left. Not one of them had grown a day older. The lanky one and the lame one and the little one were there. Perhaps it was because they had always been as old as it is possible for a boy to be, that they were now no older. They were crying the same news to the same indifferent horde scurrying past them. Their noisy shouting made Galbraithe feel more than ever like a cub reporter. It was only yesterday that his head was swirling with the first mad excitement of it.
Across the street the door stood open through which he had passed so many times. Above it he saw the weather-beaten sign which had always been weather-beaten. The little brick building greeted him as hospitably as an open fire at home. He knew every inch of it, from the outside sill to the city room, and every inch was associated in his mind with some big success or failure. If he came back as a vagrant spirit a thousand years from now he would expect to find it just as it was. A thousand years back this spot had been foreordained for it. Lord, the rooted stability of this old city! He had forgotten that he no longer had quarters in town, and must secure a room. He was still carrying his dress-suit case, but he couldn’t resist the temptation of first looking in on the old crowd and shaking hands. He hadn’t kept in touch with them except that he still read religiously every line of the old sheet, but he had recognized the work of this man and that, and knew from what he had already seen that nothing inside any more than outside could be changed. It was about nine o’clock, so he would find Hartson, the city editor, going over the morning papers, with his keen eyes alert to discover what had been missed during the night. As he hurried up the narrow stairs his heart was as much in his mouth as it had been the first day he was taken on the staff. Several new office boys eyed him suspiciously, but he walked with such an air of familiarity that they allowed him to pass unquestioned. At the entrance to the sacred precinct of the city editor’s room he paused with all his old-time hesitancy. After working five years under Hartson and then five years for himself as a managing editor, be found he had lost nothing of his wholesome respect for the man. Hartson’s back was turned when Galbraithe entered, and he waited at the rail until the man looked up. Then with a start Galbraithe saw that this wasn’t Hartson at all.
“I—I beg pardon,” he stammered.
“Well?” demanded the stranger.
“I expected to find Mr. Hartson,” explained Galbraithe.
“Hartson?”
“I used to be on the staff and—”
“Guess you’re in the wrong office,” the stranger shut him off abruptly.
For a moment Galbraithe believed this was possible, but every scarred bit of furniture was in its place and the dusty clutter of papers in the corner had not been disturbed. The new city editor glanced suspiciously toward Galbraithe’s dress-suit case and reached forward as though to press a button. With flushed cheeks Galbraithe retreated, and hurried down the corridor toward the reportorial rooms. He must find Billy Bertram and get the latter to square him with the new city editor. He made at once for Billy Bertram’s desk, with hand extended. Just beyond was the desk he himself had occupied for five years. Bertram looked up—and then Galbraithe saw that it wasn’t Bertram at all.
“What can I do for you, old man?” inquired the stranger. He was a man of about Bertram’s age, and a good deal of Bertram’s stamp.