Tom Dennis sat on a printer's stool beside a very dirty window which dimly illumined his figure, and stared at the gloom surrounding him. His rawboned face was dejected; his angular body slumped despondently. In his hand was a little sheaf of papers. It was five-thirty in the afternoon. Long since, the grist of evening papers had gone through the big press; the rollers had been washed and retired; the men had gone home. It was Saturday night, and the week's work was done. So was _The Marshville Clarion_, as Tom Dennis cheerlessly admitted to himself.…
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