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Updated: June 11, 2025
The combination is 'Right twenty, twice; back nine; right ten. Can you remember that? For you must not write it down, you know." Jack repeated the number several times; and again thanking the manager for the compliment, continued up-stairs to the telegraph-room. Two mornings later Jack was again called into Mr. Black's office.
There is silence in the telegraph-room. The tinkle of the horse-cars comes up audibly from the street. The night editor knows what has happened, to the slightest detail. The night editor grows still more unctuous. "From earthquakes, hailstorms and early frosts," he prays, "good Lord, deliver us."
As Jack watched, puzzling over its use, the "spectre" hoisted the pole to his shoulder, cautiously picked his way amid the freight to the telegraph-room partition, and mounted a large box. And then, while Jack fairly shook with internal laughter, he laboriously raised the pole, and began bumping and scraping it up and down the under side of the roof.
Orr took the blankets and threw them over Jack's head, and on the run Jack plunged into the wall of smoke. With one gloved hand outstretched he found the telegraph-room door, and the knob. He pressed against it, and with a crash and then a roar the door collapsed before him.
"Yes," bit off Lane, sourly. "And you, Miss Euston?" "Of course," she answered. "Then we all go," decided Craig. "Lane, may I install this thing in your telegraph-room outside?" "Anything you say," Lane returned, unmollified. Whiting set to work immediately, while Kennedy gave him the final instructions.
Corkey goes to his home. On the night of the fourth day he appears in the yellow light of the telegraph-room. "Commodore, we're sorry for you. Take it easy, and get back to work. No man can live, doing as you've done. You were up all the time, weren't you?" Corkey's light is burning because the other editors need it. He sits with his coat on, his face on his hands, his elbows on the table.
The yellow lights still color the telegraph-room. At 3 o'clock the copy boy enters hurriedly. "Corkey just died," he says, electrifying the comrades. "He just gave one of his most awful sneezes, and it killed him right off. The doctor says he burst a vein." Eighty lights are burning in the composing-room. Eighty compositors cross old dogs, most of them are ending a long and weary day's toil.
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