I still believe that an
unfriendly printer played me that trick.
"Next time," he added, dismissing me, "make them swear to the stove.
There is no accounting for cats."
But, though I did not hear the last of it in the office for a long
time, I know that my measure was taken by the desk that day. I was
trusted after that, even though I had made a mistake.
In spite of it, I did not get on. There was not a living in it
for me, that was made plain enough. We were too many doing general
work. After six months of hard grubbing I decided that I had
better seek my fortune elsewhere. Spring was coming, and it seemed
a waste of time to stay where I was. I wrote out my resignation
and left it on the city editor's desk. Some errand took me out of
the office. When I returned it lay there still, unopened. I saw
it, and thought I would try another week. I might make a strike.
So I took the note away and tore it up, just as Mr. Shanks entered
the room.
That evening it set in snowing at a great rate. I had been uptown
on a late assignment, and was coming across Printing-House Square,
running at top speed to catch the edition.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225