The Old Reporter
man. He sees me; let's hurry a little, if you don't mind; he owes me more than he'll ever pay back as it is. … Here comes young Doc. Jamison, son of ex-Governor Jamison; he's a hustler, too, becoming the star reporter of his paper, they tell me. Now if he'll just leave whiskey alone— Hello, there's Billy Woods. Haven't seen him for a long time. You've heard of him. The great Billy Woods. …"
If it were the right time of day, and he were the right kind of newspaper-man, you might pass a score of them between Broadway and the Bridge. Perhaps a half-dozen would have left a hard-luck story trailing behind them. There would be one main cause assigned for it by your experienced companion. In your walk you would have passed just about that number of places where the staple article of merchandise was dispensed in glasses. And yet these places alone are not to blame.
There are so many different sorts of men in this strange business, hurrying up and down and in and out of the big, teeming
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