He took it in
his great palm, and a smile dimpled his plump cheeks.
"Going to blossom into a regular little writer, h'm?
Well, they say it's a paying game when you get the hang
of it. And I guess you've got it. But if ever you feel
that you want a real thrill--a touch of the old
satisfying newspaper feeling--a sniff of wet ink--the
music of some editorial cussing--why come up here and I'll
give you the hottest assignment on my list, if I have to
take it away from Deming's very notebook."
When I had thanked him I crossed the hall and tried
the door of the sporting editor's room. Von Gerhard was
waiting for me far down at the other end of the corridor.
The door opened and I softly entered and shut it again.
The little room was dim, but in the half-light I could
see that Callahan had changed something--had shoved a
desk nearer the window, or swung the typewriter over to
the other side. I resented it. I glanced up at the
corner where the shabby old office coat had been wont to
hang. There it dangled, untouched, just as he had left
it. Callahan had not dared to change that. I tip-toed
over to the corner and touched it gently with my fingers.
A light pall of dust had settled over the worn little
garment, but I knew each worn place, each ink-spot, each
scorch or burn from pipe or cigarette.
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