The Old Reporter
No matter where he woke up, The Day was the first thing he asked for before a glass of ice-water even. He knew—few better—how to criticise each story, but he would laugh aloud at the humorous ones, and say, "By Jove, that's a pretty story," of the pathetic ones, and slap the paper with his hand and get nervous and excited. Then he would stop short and think. Anyone who knew him could tell what he was thinking.
"I saw old Dr. Woods's son down on Broadway to-day. I wonder why his people don't do something for him. There always was a wild streak in the Woodses. He's looking pretty seedy."
Billy did not mean to look seedy. He could not keep his neckties from fraying any more than the silk facing of his overcoat; and the latter he wore unbuttoned, just as he did the under coat, so he could put his hands in his trousers pockets. That was more comfortable. So was wearing his hat on the back of his head. And, when he could get it, there was a cigar in his mouth.
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