“Nineteen seven,” exclaimed Green, with a low whistle. “You are sure some old-timer. Let’s see—that’s over fifteen hundred days ago. When did you come on?”
“Just before the Spanish War,” answered Galbraithe eagerly. “Hartson sent me to Cuba.”
Harding came closer, his eyes burning with new interest.
“Gee,” he exclaimed, “those must have been great days. Why in thunder can’t Taft stir up a little trouble like that? I ran across an old codger at the Press Club once who had been with Dewey at Manila.”
He spoke as Galbraithe might speak of the Crimean War. He pressed the latter for details, and Galbraithe, listening to the sound of his own voice, allowed himself to be led on. When he was through he felt toothless, and as though his hair had turned gray.
“Those were the happy days,” exclaimed Harding. “The game was worth playing then—eh, old man?”
“Yes,” mumbled Galbraithe. “But don’t any of you know what has become of Hartson?”
“Haydon would probably remember him—”
“Haydon?” broke in Galbraithe. “Is he here?”
He looked wistfully about the room to the corner where the exchange editor used to sit.