smoking, drinking, playing cards or billiards—and after dinner repaired again to the office. His Sundays were spent partly in sleep, partly in dissipation. He had taken a degree at one of the smaller American colleges, had a considerable knowledge of English literature, and was ambitious to write for the stage. He was the son of a country deacon.
He was looking through the foreign news in the evening paper with a view to the fabrication of "special cablegrams" to the morrow's Dawn, when Burress, a reporter, entered.
"Hello," he said, "where's the old man?"
"Dunno," answered Hunt without looking up from his work; "drunk probably."
"I thought he'd kept pretty straight since he came here," said Burress.
"He has," retorted Hunt. "That's why I think he's drunk." Burress laughed. He stepped to the desk for light by which to read the letter and the assignment he had found in his box. Gloom overspread his vacuous face when he found that his assignment was to a meeting of some scientific club or other, and required a long, disagreeable journey to the opposite end of the town. Having shoved the clipping into his pocket in disgust, he cocked his cigar in the corner of his mouth, half closed his eyes to keep the smoke out of them, and began opening his letter with the assistant night-editor's shears. His unbuttoned ulster hanging open in front, revealed the shabby clothes beneath. The overcoat itself, however, was comparatively new, and together with the loud "puff" tie, the high silk hat, and the shoes of patent leather which he wore, enabled him to present upon the street a delusive appearance of smartness. The few inches of trouser-leg which were visible beneath the long coat, were the Achilles heel of this dandy, and worried him at times.
