“G 38, Times Office: I have a nice, quiet, furnished room. Call after
eight o’clock P.M., at No. 1143 Elston Road.”
“As I suspected,” cried Major Hurlbut, with a profound groan. “Under
these strange pseudonyms, the reporters of this paper are engaging in a
carnival of vice! But the saturnalia must end at once. From this moment
‘The Times’ becomes a moral institution. I shall ascertain the names of
these reporters, and have them peremptorily discharged!”
“H’yar’s a package for you, sah,” said the dusky porter, Martin Lewis,
entering, and placing a small bundle before Major Hurlbut.
“Ah, yes! I see,” quoth the major. “They are the new cards I ordered
last Saturday. We editors have to have cards, so as to let people know
we are editors.”
With this philosophic observation, the major opened the bundle, and
disclosed several hundred neat pasteboard cards, printed in red and
black as follows:—