"An amiable insanity," answered Warrington. "He never did any body harm by his talk, or said evil of any body. He is a stout politician too, and would never write a word or do an act against his party, as many of us do."
"Of us! Who are we?" asked Pen. "Of what profession is Mr. Archer?"
"Of the Corporation of Goosequill—of the Press, my boy," said Warrington; "of the fourth estate."
"Are you, too, of the craft, then?" Pendennis said.
"We will talk about that another time," answered the other. They were passing through the Strand as they talked, and by a newspaper office, which was all lighted up and bright. Reporters were coming out of the place, or rushing up to it in cabs; there were lamps burning in the editors' rooms, and above, where the compositors were at work: the windows of the building were in a blaze of gas.
"Look at that, Pen," Warrington said. "There she is—the great engine—she never sleeps. She has her embassadors in every quarter of the world—her couriers upon every road. Her officers march along with armies, and her envoys walk into statesmen's cabinets. They are ubiquitous. Yonder journal has an agent, at this minute, giving bribes at Madrid; and another inspecting the price of potatoes in Covent Garden. Look! here comes the Foreign Express galloping in. They will be able to give news to Downing-street to-morrow: funds will rise or fall, fortunes be made or lost; Lord B. will get up, and, holding the paper in his hand, and seeing the noble marquis in his place, will make a great speech; and—and Mr. Doolan will be called away from his supper at the Back Kitchen; for he is foreign sub-editor, and sees the mail on the newspaper sheet before he goes to his own."
And so talking, the friends turned into their chambers, and the dawn was beginning to peep.