“Such alliteration.” Harry wiped his mouth once more with the handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket. “No one will take it seriously.”

“ ‘—and were not only not black and burly, but sufficiently attractive’—sufficiently attractive!—‘for white girls of culture and refinement to fall in love with them’!”

The third man puffed his cigar. “Print it,” he said again, putting a hand on Clawson’s shoulder. It sounded like an order. “Run your own editorial right beside it. Tomorrow. Next week. Every day until the election.”

Clawson noticed Sam standing outside the glassed cubicle. He jerked open the door. “You lost?”

Sam held out his letter of introduction. “I’m your new reporter.”

“Like hell you are.” Clawson slammed the door, and Sam stood perplexed, aware that the other voices in the newsroom had suddenly stopped, replaced by muffled laughter. He felt his face go hot. His armpits were soaked. The letter wilted in his hand. He brushed back his blond hair with a moist palm.

Before he could decide what to do next, the door swung open quietly and the white-haired gentleman called Harry held out his hand. “Harry Calabash,” he said. “Honored.”

Sam shook Harry’s soft, damp hand.

“You must be Jenks—our war correspondent?”

Sam nodded. “Well, I was over there.”

Calabash nodded slowly. “You arrive at an interesting juncture, Mr. Jenks. Come along.” His voice was soft, lilting, almost effeminate. He spoke in theatrically unhurried phrases. Sam had heard a Southern drawl before, but Calabash affected an accent he could hardly comprehend. Despite a slight limp, Calabash moved nimbly among the desks, dodging through the narrow aisles toward an old hulk of a desk in the far alcove. He rummaged in the drawers. The clatter of typewriters filled the room now, writers at work. Copyboys dodged in and out. Sam kept his mouth shut.

“I understand you had some trouble on the train.”

“Word gets around.”

“It’s a small town of a city, son. I’m an old reporter.” “There was an incident.”

Without glancing up, Calabash said, “So I’m told.”

“One of the soldiers settled it.”

“Captain Kenan. Used to be collector of customs—best-paying job in the state, for the hours. Four thousand dollars per annum—that’s a cool thousand more than Governor Russell himself makes. They kicked him out for a nigrah, fellow named Dancy.”

“Hard news for him.”

“Shoot, he’d a whole lot rather play soldier with the boys at the armory than ride a desk. Likes to get his arms around this life. Bill Kenan would have been Teddy Roosevelt, if Teddy Roosevelt hadn’t already been invented.”

“And Mr. Waddell?”

“Colonel Waddell,” Calabash corrected. “He rode in with you, too? A local curiosity, like the statue in the square. Mostly harmless.” He rummaged some more. “Eureka!” He held up penciled carbons clipped together. “Let us depart this sweatshop for a more agreeable locale.”