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But newspaper work is newspaper work the world over, because men and women are just men and women the world over. But there you could live sanely, and work not too hard, and there would be spare hours for the book that is near your heart. And I I will speak of you to Norberg, of the Post.
I suppose that in two more years I shall be editing a mothers' column on an agricultural weekly." "Norberg would be delighted to get you," mused Von Gerhard, "and it would be day work instead of night work." "And you would send me a weekly bulletin on Dawn's health, wouldn't you, Ernst?" pleaded Norah.
"And the parlor will be done in red and green," I put in, eagerly, "and where there will be an ingrowing sideboard in the dining-room that won't fit in with the quaint old dinner-set at all, and a kitchenette just off that, in which the great iron pots and kettles that used to hold the family dinners will be monstrously out of place " "You're on," said Norberg.
I'm a regular little human garage when it comes to patchin' up those aggravatin' screws that need oilin'. And, say, don't let Norberg bully you. My name's Blackie. I'm goin' t' like you. Come on over t' my sanctum once in a while and I'll show you my scrapbook and let you play with the office revolver." And so it happened that I had not been in Milwaukee a month before Blackie and I were friends.
"What in the world is it, Blackie?" I put in. "Don't tell me that Norberg has been seized with one of his fiendish inspirations at this time of night." Blackie struck a match and held it for an instant so that the flare of it illuminated his face as he lighted his cigarette. There was no laughter in the deep-set black eyes. "What is it Blackie?" I asked again.
Whenever I flower into a descriptive passage I glance nervously over my shoulder, expecting to find Norberg stationed behind me, scissors and blue pencil in hand. Consequently the book, thus far, sounds very much like a police reporter's story of a fire four minutes before the paper is due to go to press." Von Gerhard's face was unsmiling. "So," he said, slowly. "You burn the candle at both ends.
Norberg cared not whether the celebrity in question was noted for a magnificent high C, or a left half-scissors hook, so long as the interview was dished up hot and juicy, with plenty of quotation marks, a liberal sprinkling of adjectives and adverbs, and a cut of the victim gracing the top of the column.
Norberg, the city editor, adores celebrities. He never allows one to escape uninterviewed. On Friday there fell to my lot a world-famous prima donna, an infamous prize-fighter, and a charming old maid.
Edward Bulkely, Esq. 13. John Leake Burrage. 14. Oliver Shorne. 15. Isaac Caton. 16. John Norberg. 17. Hugh Parker. 18. James Allen. 19. James Simonds. 20. Nathaniel Rogers, Esq.
When he refused to see the story in the little German bakery sign I began to argue. "But man alive, this is America! I think I know a story when I see it. Suppose you were traveling in Germany, and should come across a sign over a shop, saying: 'Hier wird Deutsch gesprochen. Wouldn't you think you were dreaming?" Norberg waved an explanatory hand. "This isn't America. This is Milwaukee.
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