The New Reporter
crinkly crape was going to feel when he yanked it out of the way in order to jangle the doorbell and ask questions of red-eyed women.
He wondered if all this ever bothered the other reporters, many of whom seemed to be very much the same sort of people as him self and his friends. But—except when they got hold of a "beat," which always caused absurd excitement—they seemed quite cheerful and businesslike in getting and writing their news. "I suppose you get used to it in time," he said to one of these.
"Oh, they like to have the papers print the list of clubs he belonged to," was the reply.
Down along the East River water front the big, brave ships from far away foreign ports rest at ease, with their bowsprits slouching out half way across South Street. Quaint figure-heads are on their bows, and on their sterns names still more quaint and full of soft vowels which mean something in some part of the seven seas; brigs from the West Indies and barks from South Africa;
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