Arranged in a procession they would have taken an hour in passing a saloon: easily that.
In the whole vast building all was uproar.

Telephones, megaphones and gramophones were ringing throughout the building.

Elevators flew up and down, stopping nowhere.
Only in one place was quiet--namely, in the room where sat the big man on whose capacious intellect the whole organization depended.
Masterman Throgton, the general manager of the _Planet_, was a man in middle life.

There was something in his massive frame which suggested massiveness, and a certain quality in the poise of his great head which indicated a balanced intellect.

His face was impenetrable and his expression imponderable.
The big chief was sitting in his swivel chair with ink all round him.
Through this man's great brain passed all the threads and filaments that held the news of a continent.