Then we
resumed our wanderings. One thought, and only one, I had room for.
I did not pursue it; it walked with me wherever I went: She was
not married yet. Not yet. When the sun rose, I washed my face and
hands in a dog's drinking-trough, pulled my clothes into such shape
as I could, and went with Bob to his new home. That parting over,
I walked down to 23 Park Row and delivered my letter to the desk
editor in the New York News Association, up on the top floor.
He looked me over a little doubtfully, but evidently impressed with
the early hours I kept, told me that I might try. He waved me to
a desk, bidding me wait until he had made out his morning book of
assignments; and with such scant ceremony was I finally introduced
to Newspaper Row, that had been to me like an enchanted land. After
twenty-seven years of hard work in it, during which I have been
behind the scenes of most of the plays that go to make up the sum
of the life of the metropolis, it exercises the old spell over me
yet. If my sympathies need quickening, my point of view adjusting,
I have only to go down to Park Row at eventide, when the crowds are
hurrying homeward and the City Hall clock is lighted, particularly
when the snow lies on the grass in the park, and stand watching
them awhile, to find all things coming right.
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