Bellows Falls times. [volume] (Bellows Falls, Vt.) 1856-1965, 1869-01-15
5fiseellanp.
From Packard's Monthly.
The New York Tribune.

Here we are at the door of the edito-
rial room. Step within this little entry,
and snap small spring fitted into the
side of the door casing. Before the dis
tant tinkle of the bell dies away little
Johnny Weinheimer, the office boy,
opens the door, and throws a suspicious
glance at us from his black eyes. We
are in the city editors room. The walls
are covered with maps. A perpendicu
lar viaduct, for communication between
the counting, editorial, and composing
rooms, with speaking pipes, copy boxes,
and bells, runs from the low ceiling
through the centre of the room. A small
library of books relating to city affairs
leans against the viaduct. A water pail
and tin jar of ice water occupies one
corner of the room. Paste pots and ink
stands are scattered over the desks in Ia
zy confusion. Bits of blotting paper and
scores of rusty looking steel pens are
strewn about the tables. A dozen report
ers are seated at dozen small green
desks. Some are writing, a few are read
ing, and two are smoking brierwood
pipes. The most conspicuous reporter
in the room is Col. James B. Mix, a man
of magnificent physique, and a genuine
Broadway lounger. He is dressed in
exquisite taste, wears eyeglasses, black
side-whiskers, and a mustache, and has
countenance that would create a sensa-
| ton at a Sorosis dinner. A small but
stout built man, with rosy face and in
telligent gray eyes, is Mr.. Barclay Gal
lagher, the Assistant city editor. He
has risen to his present position from the
composing room. Zebulon White, with
the pale face of college student, is
writing up real estate report. Robert
w. McAlpine, formerly an editor on the
Philadelphia Press and the Washington
Chronicle-a smooth faced man who
might easily be taken for an interpreter
for the Chinese Embassy-is busily dash
ing off New York letter for promi-
nent Western journal. George w. Pearce,
the police reporter, rosy-complexioned,
blue-eyed little gentleman, who seems as
spry as circus rider, is hurriedly dash
ing off an Immense Robbery in Wall
street." stopping suddenly to perpetrate
a joke, and then growing at the late
hours assigned him at police headquar-
ters Quinlan. A thin, ebon-eyed, black
moustached reporter, is accusing Meeker,
an active, smooth-faced boy, fresh from
the prairies of Illinois, of borrowing his
paste pot, and Ralph in a nasal twang,
is retorting by counter accusation, in
volving the loss of pair of scissors.
Thatcher, the weather man, the success
sor of the sage of Brooklyn Heights, en-
ters the door, and in response to numer.
Gus questions, decides that it will rain
within forty hours. The professor is an
old man of about fifty-fve, dressed in a
seedy, snuff colored suit, wearing rusty
high hat, and a heavy-soled pair ofshoes
For twenty-five years he has run the tel
escope business during the dead hours o.
the night in front of St. Paul's Church
"Eh? Mr.. Young? Yes, sir; he'
here. Dye want to seem p replied
Johnny Weinheimer, in answer to oul
inquiry.
Certainly, if he is disengaged."
"Pll tell you in second"
Johnny peeps through small hole il
the ground glass of the door to Young
room, then darts back to a match-saf
hanging at our side, and pulls therefron
two square slips of letter-paper.
"Please write your name on this pa
per-or, if you have got your cards witt
YOU, they'll do jis as well. I'll take 'en
in to Mr.. Young"
Our cards go in, and in ten seconds W
are ushered into the presence of the man
aging editor of the Tribune. You glanc
at John Russell Young, and then gaz
, back at Johnny, as if you thought h
was perpetrating a joke at our expens'
What this blue-eyed boy the managin
editor of the most influential journal j
America You can hardly believe it.
In personal appearance Mr.. Young is IL
/ most insignificant person about the ofiic
He is light-complexioned, has a larg
sloping head, thatched with brown hal
clear forehead, and a prominent nos
and is as quick of motion as sparro'