Bennietod was in every one's secret, clipped every one's space and knew every one's salary, and he had lately covered a baseball game when the man whose copy he was to carry had, outside the fence, become implicated in allurements.
He was greeted with noise, and St.George told him heartily that he was glad he had come.
"He made me," defensively claimed Bennietod; frowning deferentially at Little Cawthorne.
"Hello, St.George," said the latter, "come on back to the office.
Crass sits in your place and he wears cravats the colour of goblin's blood.

Come back." "Not he," said Chillingworth, smoking; "the Dead-and-Done-with editor is too keen for that; I won't give him a job.

He's ruined.
Egg sandwiches will never stimulate him now." St.George joined in the relieved laugh that followed.

They were remembering his young Sing Sing convict who had completed his sentence in time to step in a cab and follow his mother to the grave, where his stepfather refused to have her coffin opened.

And St.George, fresh from his Alma Mater, had weighted the winged words of his story with allusions to the tears celestial of Thetis, shed for Achilles, and Creon's grief for Haemon, and the Unnatural Combat of Massinger's father and son; so that Chillingworth had said things in languages that are not dead (albeit a bit Elizabethan) and the composing room had shaken mailed fists.
"Hi, you!" said Little Cawthorne, who was born in the South, "this is a mellow minute.