Just then, as luck would have it, the old lady came up and greeted me.
She gave me a reproachful look.
"I'm afraid you are smoking too much for your health. I never see you
now, without a cigar box under your arm," she said, in her motherly way.
"Oh, it isn't that, I assure you," I hastened to declare, "but the fact
is, I'm moving again."
And speaking of those days, puts me in mind of a little thing that
happened to me about that time.
I was working as a reporter then, and the managing editor complained
that my material was quite too far stretched.
That is, he said I cost them too much money in telegraphic tools, and
desired me to condense the details.
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They could do all the romancing at the office, for we had men especially
employed for that purpose, who, given a few facts for a foundation,
could build up the most astonishing account imaginable.
Indeed, I've known them to describe things better than the fellow who
was on the spot could have done.
That's genius, you understand.
Well, I laid low and awaited my opportunity to boil the next account
down in a manner certain to please this grand mogul.
The opportunity came.
There was some sort of explosion on a big vessel over at Philadelphia,
and as our regular correspondent there chanced to be ill, I was packed
off to get special news.
"Be as quick as you can. Wire us hard, boiled-down facts as soon as you
get hold of 'em. Leave details to the office. Perhaps you'll be in time
for the noon edition."
That's what the managing editor said.
I spared no expense in hurrying to the spot, and before eleven-twenty
sent this brief telegram:
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"Terrific explosion. Man-o'-war. Boiler empty. Engineer full. Funeral
to-morrow.