that
finally the convention had adjourned until morning, and now the
delegates were streaming out of the hall, too tired to cheer and almost
too tired to jeer--all of which was sad news to us, because it meant
that, instead of taking a holiday on the Fourth, we must work until noon
at least, and very likely until later. Down that way the Fourth was not
observed with quite the firecrackery and skyrockety enthusiasm that
marked its celebration in most of the states to the north of us;
nevertheless, a day off was a day off and we were deeply disgusted at
the turn affairs had taken. It was almost enough to make a fellow feel
friendly toward the Republicans.

Following the tension there was a snapback; a feeling of languor and
disappointment possessed us. Devore slammed down the lid of his desk and
departed, cursing the luck as he went. Harty, the telegraph editor, and
Wilbur, the telegraph operator, rolled down their shirtsleeves and,
taking their coats over their arms, departed in company for Tony's place
up at the corner, where cool beers were to be found and electric fans,
and a business men's lunch served at all hours.

That left in the city room four or five men. Sprawled upon battered
chairs and draped over battered desks, they inhaled the smells of rancid
greases that floated in to them from the back of the building; they
coddled their disappointment to keep it warm and they talked shop. When
it comes to talking shop in season and out of season, neither stock
actors nor hospital surgeons are worse offenders than newspaper
reporters--especially young newspaper reporters, as all these men were
except only Major Stone.

It was inevitable that the talk should turn upon the Bullard murder, and
that the failure of the police force to find the killer or even to find
a likely suspect should be the hinge for its turning. For the moment Ike
Webb had the floor, expounding his own pet theories. Ike was a good
talker--a mighty good reporter too, let me tell you. Across the room
from Ike, tilted back in a chair against the wall, sat the major,
looking shabby and a bit forlorn. For a month now shabbiness had been
seizing on the major, spreading over him like a mildew. It started first
with his shoes, which turned brown and then cracked across the toes, it
extended to his hat, which sagged in its brim and became a moldy green
in its crown, and now it had touched his coat lapels, his waistcoat
front, his collar--his rolling Lord