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Image provided by: Hobart and William Smith Colleges
138 The H obart H erald was over. “ Grouch ” was written clearly in his eyes as he clipped his “ rewrite.” He slapped his paste brush down with all the elo quence of a curse. After a while he slammed out of the office with out a word to Kensington or any of us. I was anxious to know' the details of that rumpus-making assignment so I hurried over to Police Headquarters. That bare whitewashed desk room was the ‘ ‘ Comet staff’s club. There we all gathered at one time or other in the even ing to discuss Kensington’s latest “ grouch.” The grey haired desk sergeant was our president. He had known Kensington from his “ cub ” days up to the time when he jumped to the “ city desk ” and SergeantCook had no good word to say of our chief. It was late when we all had drifted in from various assignments and gathered in the desk room. Billy MacLaren was there early but the “ grouch ” was still evident. “ Come over here, I want to talk,” he said and I knew the devil was to pay at the office. “ I ’m through,” he announced grimly. “ You have said that before I reminded him.” “ This time it is final,” this with over-emphatic profanity. “ Kensington agreeable,” I said carelessly. “ To h—with him and the d—” Comet.” Some one else must do his dirty work. Look at that, the sneaking pup sent me out on that to-night and ” , the rest was curses, these bitter, soul stirring curses of which newspaper men and cab drivers only are capable. The article cut from the advertising columns of the Evening Leader was one of those pitifully vulgar notices of w'recked happiness. It was : “ Be it known that as my wife, Margaret Barrett has left my bed and board, I hereby give notice that any bills she may con tract, I will refuse to pay.” “ Nasty,” I said filling my pipe. “ Nasty,” this contemptuously, no name for it, it’s a damned out rage. “ Oh not so bad as that, go easy,” I was trying to be the oil man
