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Nothing! You're a useless pulp, like a lemon that has been squeezed dry. Von Gerhard was right. There must be no more newspaper work for you, me girl. Not if you can keep away from the fascination of it, which I don't think you can." Then I would fall to thinking of those years of newspapering of the thrills of them, and the ills of them.
She has led me about to bridge parties and tea fights, and I have tried to act as though I were enjoying it all, but I knew that I wasn't getting on a bit. I have come to the conclusion that one year of newspapering counts for two years of ordinary, existence, and that while I'm twenty-eight in the family Bible I'm fully forty inside.
"Been in the newspapering line before?" was his next interrogatory a very pertinent one; for, Transatlantic journalists, as a rule, manage to try every trade and calling previously to sinking down to "literature" similarly to some of those bookseller's "hacks" over here who mortgage themselves to flash publishers when all other means of livelihood have failed them.
After a time the editor wheeled, displaying a young, smooth, fat face, out of which peered gray-blue eyes with pin-point pupils. "Well?" he queried. "Here I am," said Anderson. "So it appears. What do you want?" "Work." "What kind?" "Newspapering." "What can you do?" "Anything." "Well, well!" cried the editor. "You don't look much like a newspaper man." "I'm not one yet. But I'm going to be."
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