They ruthlessly call an editor from his work with
such a remark as: "Did you see this, Smith, in the Gazette?" and proceed
to read the paragraph while the sufferer reins in his impatient pen and
listens; they often loll and sprawl round the office hour after hour,
swapping anecdotes and relating personal experiences to each other
--hairbreadth escapes, social encounters with distinguished men, election
reminiscences, sketches of odd characters, etc. And through all those
hours they never seem to comprehend that they are robbing the editors of
their time, and the public of journalistic excellence in next day's
paper. At other times they drowse, or dreamily pore over exchanges, or
droop limp and pensive over the chair-arms for an hour. Even this solemn
silence is small respite to the editor, for the next uncomfortable thing
to having people look over his shoulders, perhaps, is to have them sit by
in silence and listen to the scratching of his pen. If a body desires to
talk private business with one of the editors, he must call him outside,
for no hint milder than blasting-powder or nitroglycerin would be likely
to move the bores out of listening-distance.
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