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He was not in. Apparently nobody was. I wandered
through room after room, all empty, till at last I came to one in
which sat a man with a paste-pot and a pair of long shears. This
must be the editor; he had the implements of his trade. I told him
my errand while he clipped away.
[Figure: When I worked in the Buffalo Ship-yard. ]
"What is it you want?" he asked, when I had ceased speaking and
waited for an answer.
"Work," I said.
"Work!" said he, waving me haughtily away with the shears; "we
don't work here. This is a newspaper office."
I went, abashed. I tried the Express next. This time I had the
editor pointed out to me. He was just coming through the business
office. At the door I stopped him and preferred my request. He
looked me over, a lad fresh from the shipyard, with horny hands
and a rough coat, and asked:--
"What are you?"
"A carpenter," I said.
The man turned upon his heel with a loud, rasping laugh and shut the
door in my face. For a moment I stood there stunned. His ascending
steps on the stairs brought back my senses.


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