A Reporter’s Romance
I.
Walter Condon and I—reporters for two morning newspapers in the city of New York—were nearing the end of our long round of visiting police stations in search of news, as the clocks were making ready to strike twelve. Turning out of Pearl Street, where the bitter wind of this January midnight was drifting fine icy snow into our chilled faces, the green signal lanterns before the door of our last station showed us a hospital ambulance standing there. Hastening to enter, we found lying on the floor of the back office, with an ugly wound in his head, a man whose face we had often seen in the cell for thieving, and whose business was to peddle sweet meats among the concert saloons and sailors’ resorts existing in such terrible abundance between Chatham Street and the East River. The surgeon thought the man would not live, but ordered him removed to a hospital. At that moment the front door was opened timidly, and a small voice asked, “Please, sir, is he dead?”
“No, he a’n’t croaked yet, but he will ’fore long,” answered the glum doorman. Then, seeing the scared, pitiful little face, he added, more kindly, “What do you want with old Baldwin, anyhow?”
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