The Old Reporter
of the floor pointed him out as "One of the Virginia Woods. Yes, they're all fine-looking. It was this boy's aunt who eloped with the Austrian, don't you recollect, that winter in Washington? When old Dr. Woods surprised everybody by marrying again she was so sorry for this boy—mere child then—that she took him over there with her and kept him until now that she has too many children of her own to look after …" And all this made the young newspaper man more interesting to some sorts of people; only he hated to have them ask, as so many of them did, looking at him as if he were a curiosity, "what department" he was in.
He did not like to say he was a reporter because nearly every one's conception of the reporter seemed to be gained from those singular creatures who scurried around on the outskirts of social functions and wrote down more or less interesting names "among those present."
"Because you are so seldom the source of more important news," Billy wanted to say, cuttingly, for he did not consider it a
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