"That is as it should be." And he would
say nothing more.
The last edition of the paper had been run off for
the day. I had purposely waited until the footfalls of
the last departing reporter should have ceased to echo
down the long corridor. The city room was deserted
except for one figure bent over a pile of papers and
proofs. Norberg, the city editor, was the last to leave,
as always. His desk light glowed in the darkness of the
big room, and his typewriter alone awoke the echoes.
As I stood in the doorway he peered up from beneath
his green eye-shade, and waved a cloud of smoke away with
the palm of his hand.
"That you, Mrs. Orme?" he called out. "Lord, we've
missed you! That new woman can't write an obituary, and
her teary tales sound like they were carved with a cold
chisel. When are you coming back?"
"I'm not coming back," I replied. "I've come to say
good-by to you and--Blackie."
Norberg looked up quickly. "You feel that way, too?
Funny. So do the rest of us. Sometimes I think we are
all half sure that it is only another of his impish
tricks, and that some morning he will pop open the door
of the city room here and call out, `Hello, slaves! Been
keepin' m' memory green?'"
I held out my hand to him, gratefully.
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