‘I wish to see Mr Greeley,’ he said.

‘There he is,’ I answered, ‘go and speak to him.’

‘Mr Greeley,’ said he, ’I have called to see if you can take me on the Tribune.’

The Printer continued reading as if he were the only man in the room.

The young man looked at him and then at me — with an expression that moved me to a fellow feeling.  He was a country boy, more green and timid even than I had been.

‘He did not hear you — try again,’ I said.

‘Mr Greeley,’ said he, louder than before, ’I have called to see if you can take me on the Tribune.’

The editor’s eyes glanced off at the boy and returned to their reading.

‘No, boy, I can’t,’ he drawled, shifting his eyes to another article.  And the boy, who was called to the service of the paper in time, but not until after his pen had made him famous, went away with a look of bitter disappointment.

In his attire Mr Greeley wore always the best material, that soon took on a friendless and dejected look.  The famous white overcoat had been bought for five dollars of a man who had come by chance to the office of the New Yorker, years before, and who considered its purchase a great favour.  That was a time when the price of a coat was a thing of no little importance to the Printer.  Tonight there was about him a great glow, such as comes of fine tailoring and new linen.

He was so preoccupied with his paper that I went out into the big room and sat down, awaiting a better time.

‘The Printer’s going to Washington to talk with the president,’ said an editor.

Just then Mr Greeley went running hurriedly up the spiral stair on his way to the typeroom.  Three or four compositors had gone up ahead of him.  He had risen out of sight when we heard a tremendous uproar above stairs.  I ran up, two steps at a time, while the high voice of Mr Greeley came pouring down upon me like a flood.  It had a wild, fleering tone.  He stood near the landing, swinging his arms and swearing like a boy just learning how.  In the middle of the once immaculate shirt bosom was a big, yellow splash.  Something had fallen on him and spattered as it struck We stood well out of range, looking at it, undeniably the stain of nicotine.  In a voice that was no encouragement to confession he dared ‘the drooling idiot’ to declare himself.  In a moment he opened his waistcoat and surveyed the damage.

‘Look at that!’ he went on, complainingly.  ’Ugh!  The reeking, filthy, slobbering idiot!  I’d rather be slain with the jaw bone of an ass.’

‘You’ll have to get another shirt,’ said the pressman, who stood near.  ‘You can’t go to Washington with such a breast pin.’

‘I’d breast pin him if I knew who he was,’ said the editor.

A number of us followed him downstairs and a young man went up the Bowery for a new shirt.  When it came the Printer took off the soiled garment, flinging it into a corner, and I helped him to put himself in proper fettle again.  This finished, he ran away, hurriedly, with his carpet-bag, and I missed the opportunity I wanted for a brief talk with him.