It was raining; a cold thin rain. The
window was blurred. The water in the steam-pipes went banging away. I
was composing an editorial which treated the diplomatic relations
between this country and England. The roar of Park Row distracted me.
Now and then I would go to the window and peer down on the living
stream below. A dense cloud of steam hung over all the city. I swore
some when the copy boy came in and said that there was yet a column and
a half to fill, and that the foreman wanted to "close up the page
early." The true cause of my indisposition was due to the rumors rife
in the office that morning. Rumors which emanate from the managing
editor's room are usually of the sort which burden the subordinate ones
with anxiety. The London correspondent was "going to pieces." He had
cabled that he was suffering from nervous prostration, supplementing a
request for a two months' leave of absence. For "nervous prostration"
we read "drink." Our London correspondent was a brilliant journalist;
he had written one or two clever books; he had a broad knowledge of men
and affairs; and his pen was one of those which flashed and burned at
frequent intervals; but he drank.
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