I met with another sub-editor on whom for a period I looked with some measure of awe, being _in statu pupillari_ at the time.
Every night he used to take a razor out of his press and lay it beside his desk, having opened it with great deliberation and a hard look upon his haggard face. I believed that he was possessed of strong suicidal impulses, and that he was placing the razor where it would be handy in case he should find it necessary to make away with himself some night or in the early hours of the morning.
I held him in respect for just one month. At the end of that time I saw him sharpening his pencil with the razor, and I ventured to inquire if he usually employed the instrument for that purpose.
"I do," he replied. "I lost six penknives in this room within a fortnight; those blue-pencilled reporters use up a lot of knives, and they never buy any, so I brought down this old razor. They'll not steal that."
But I lost all respect for that sub-editor.
_A perturbed spirit--The loss of a fortune--A broken bank--A study in bimetallism--Auri sacra fames--A rough diamond--A friend of the peerage--And of Dublin stout--His weaknesses--The Quarterly Review--The dilemma--An amateur hospital nurse--A terrible night--Benvenuto Cellini--A subtle jest--The disappearance of the jester--An appropriated leaderette--An appropriated anecdote--An appropriated quatrain._
ONCE I saw a sub-editor actually within easy reach of suicide. It was not the duplicating of a five-column speech in flimsy, nor was it that the foreman printer had broken his heart. It was that he had been the victim of a heartless theft. His savings of years had been carried off in the course of a single night. So he explained to me with "tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect," when I came down to the office one evening. He was walking up and down his room, with three hours' arrears of unopened telegrams on his desk and a _p.p.c._ note from the foreman beneath a leaden "rule," used as a paper weight; for the foreman, being, as usual, a conscientious man, invariably promised to hand in his notice at sundown if kept waiting for copy.
"What on earth is the matter?" I inquired.
"It's worse--worse!" he moaned. "I've lost all my money--all--all! there's the tin I kept it in--see for yourself if there's a penny left in it." He threw himself into his chair and bowed down his head upon his hands.