The facts about the man we called “Whiskers” linger in my mind, asking to be recorded, and though they do not make much of a story, I am tempted to unburden myself by putting them on paper. It was mentally noted as a sure thing by everybody who saw him go into the managing editor's room, to ask for a position on the staff of the paper, that if he should obtain a place and become a fixture in the office, he would be generally known as Whiskers within twenty-four hours after his instalment.

What tale he told the managing editor no one knew, but every one in the editorial rooms deduced later that it must have been something a trifle out of the common, for the managing editor, who had gone through the form of taking the names of three previous applicants that afternoon and telling them that he would let them know when a vacancy should occur on the staff, told the man whom we eventually christened Whiskers that he might come around the next day and write whatever he might choose to in the way of Sunday “specials,” comic verses, or editorial paragraphs, on the chance of their being accepted.

The next day the hairy-faced man took possession of a desk in the room occupied by the exchange editor and one of the editorial writers, and began to grind out “copy.”

He was a slim, figure, with what is commonly denominated a “slight stoop.” His trousers were none too long for his thin legs, his tightly fitting frock coat, threadbare, shiny, and unduly creased, was hardly of a fit for his slender body and his long arms. It was his face, however, that mostly individualized his appearance.

The face was pale, the outlines symmetrical, but rather feeble, and the countenance would have seemed rather lamblike but for the fact that it was framed with thick, long hair and a luxuriant beard, which caressed his waistcoat.

These made him impressive at first sight.

On the first day of his presence, he said little to the men with whom he shared his room in the office. On the second day he grew communicative and talked rather pompously to the exchange editor. He prated of his past achievements as a newspaper man in other cities. He had a cheerful way of talking in a voice that was high but not loud. His undaunted manner of uttering self-praise caused the exchange editor to wink at the editorial writer. It engendered, too, a small degree of dislike on the part of these worthies; and the exchange editor made it a point to watch for some of the new man's work in the paper, that he might be certain whether the new man's ability was equal to the new man's opinion of it.

The exchange editor found that it was not. The new man had been in the office four days before any of his contributions had gone through the process of creation, acceptance, and publication. Some verses and some alleged jokes were his first matter printed. They were below mediocrity. The exchange editor ceased to dislike the whiskered man and thereafter regarded him as quite harmless and mildly amusing.

This view of him was eventually accepted by every one who came to know him, and he was made the object of a good deal of gentle chaffing.

He earned probably $15 or $20 at space rates, a lamentably small amount for so intellectual looking a man, but a very large amount considering the quality of work turned out by him.

Doubtless he would not have made nearly so much had not the managing editor whispered something in the ears of the assistant editor-in-chief, whose duty it was to judge of the acceptability of editorial matter offered, the editor of the Sunday's supplement, and other members of the staff who might have occasion to “turn down” the new man's contributions, or to wink at the deficiencies in his work.

One day Whiskers, with many apologies and much embarrassment, asked the exchange editor to lend him a quarter, which request having been complied with, he put on his much rubbed high hat and hurried from the room.

“It's funny the old man's hard up so soon,” the exchange editor said to the editorial writer at the next desk, “It's only two days since pay-day.”

“Where does he sink his money?” asked the editorial writer. “His sleeping-room costs him only $3 a week, and, eating the way he does, at the cheapest hash-houses, his whole expenses can't be more than $8. No one ever sees him spend a cent. He must sink it away in a bank.”

“Hasn't he any relatives?”

“He never spoke of any, and he lives alone. Wotherspoon, who lodges where he does, says no one ever comes to see him.”

“He certainly doesn't spend money on clothes.”

“No; and he never drinks at his own expense.”

“He's probably leading a double life,” said the exchange editor, jestingly, as he plunged his scissors into a Western paper, to cut out a poem by James Whitcomb Riley.

Without making many acquaintances, Whiskers, by reason of his hirsute peculiarity, became known throughout the building, from the business office on the ground floor to the composing-room on the top. When he went into the latter one day and passed down the long aisle between the long row of cases and type-setting machines, with a corrected proof in his hand, a certain printer, who was “setting” up a clothing-house advertisement, could not resist the temptation to give labial imitation of the blowing of wind. The bygone joke concerning whiskers and the wind was then current, and a score of compositors took up the whistle, so that all varieties of breeze were soon being simulated simultaneously. Whiskers coloured sightly, but, save a dignified straightening of his shoulders, he showed no other sign that he was conscious of the rude allusion to his copious beard.

Whiskers chose Tuesday for his day off.

It was on a certain Tuesday evening that one of the reporters came into the exchange editor's room and casually remarked:

“I saw your anti-shaving friend, who sits at that desk, riding out to the suburbs on a car to-day. He was all crushed up and carried a bouquet of roses.”

“That settles it,” cried the editorial writer to the exchange editor, with mock jubilation. “There can be no doubt the old man was leading a double life. The bouquet means a woman in the case.”

“And his money goes for flowers and presents,” added the exchange editor.

“Some of it, of course,” went on the editorial writer, “and the rest he's saving to get married on. Who'd have thought it at his age?”

“Why, he's not over forty. It's only his whiskers that make him look old. One can easily detect a sentimental vein in his composition.”

“That accounts for his fits of abstraction, too. So he's found favour in some fair one's eyes. I wonder what she's like.”

“Young and pretty, I'll bet,” said the exchange editor. “He's impressed her by his dignified aspect. No doubt she thinks he's nothing less than an editor-in-chief.”

The next day Whiskers was taciturn, as his office associates now recalled that he was wont to be after “his day off.” Doubtless his thoughts dwelt upon his visits to his divinity. He did not respond to their efforts to involve him in conversation.

He was observed upon his next day off to take a car for the suburbs and to have a bouquet in his hand and a package under his arm. The theory originated by the editorial writer had general acceptance. It was passed from man to man in the office.

“Have you heard about the queer old duck with the whiskers, who writes in the exchange room? He's engaged to a young and pretty girl up-town, and eats at fifteen-cent soup-shops so that he can buy her flowers and wine and things.”

“What! Old Whiskers in love! That's a good one!”

One day while Whiskers' pen was busily gliding across the paper, the exchange editor broke the silence by asking him, in a careless tone:

“How was she, yesterday, Mr. Croydon?”

Whiskers looked up almost quickly, an expression of almost pained surprise on his face.

“Who?” he inquired.

“Ah, you thought because you didn't tell us, it wouldn't out. But you've been caught. I mean the lady to whom you take roses every week, of course.”

Whiskers simply stared at the exchange editor, as if quite bewildered.

“Oh, pardon me,” said the exchange editor, somewhat abashed. “I didn't mean to offend you. One's affairs of the heart are sacred, I know. But we all guy each other about each other's amours here. We're hardened to that sort of pleasantry.”

A look of enlightenment, a blush, a deep sigh, and an “Oh, I'm not offended,” were the only manifestations made by Whiskers after the exchange editor's apology.

It was inferred from his manner that he did not wish to make confidences or receive jests about his love-affairs.

A time came when Whiskers seemed to have something constantly on his mind. Not content with one day's vacation each week, he would go off for periods of three or four hours on other days.

“Do you notice how queerly the old man behaves?” said the editorial writer to the exchange editor thereupon. “Things are coming to a crisis.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Why, the wedding, of course.”

This inference received a show of confirmation afterward when Whiskers had a private interview with the managing editor, received an order on the cashier for all the money due him, and for a part of the managing editor's salary as a loan, and quietly said to the exchange editor that he would be away for a week or so. The editorial writer happened to be at the cashier's window when Whiskers had his order cashed. So when the editorial writer and the exchange editor compared notes a few minutes later, the latter complimented the former upon the correctness of his prediction that Whiskers' marriage was imminent.

“He didn't invite us,” said the exchange editor, “but then I suppose the affair is to be a very quiet one, and we can't take offence at that. The old man's not a bad lot, by any means. Let's do something to please him and to flatter his bride. What do you say to raising a fund to buy them a present, in the name of the staff?”

“I'm in for it,” said the editorial writer, producing a half-dollar.

They canvassed the office and found everybody willing to contribute. The managing editor and the assistant editor-in-chief had gone home, but as they had shown kindness to Whiskers, and were, in fact, the only two men on the staff who knew anything about his private affairs, the exchange editor took his chances and put in a dollar for each of them.

“And now, what shall we get—and where shall we send it?” said the exchange editor.

“Not to his lodging-house, certainly. He'll probably be married at the residence of his bride's parents, as the notices say. We'd better get it quick, and rush it up there—wherever that is—somewhere up-town.”

“But say,” interposed the city editor, who was present at this consultation, “maybe the ceremony has already come off. I saw the old man giving in a notice for advertisement across the counter at the business office an hour ago.”

“Well, we may be able to learn from that where the bride lives, anyhow, and some one can go there and find out something definite about the happy pair's present and future whereabouts,” suggested the editorial writer.

“That's so,” said the city editor. “The notice is in the composing-room by this time. I'll run up and find it.”

The city editor left the editorial writer and the exchange editor alone together in the room, each sitting at their own desk.

“What shall we get with this money?” queried the former, touching the bills and silver dumped upon his desk.

“Something to please the woman. That'll give Whiskers the most pleasure. He evidently loves her deeply. These constant visits and gifts speak the greatest devotion.”

“Of course, but what shall it be?”

The two were battling with this question when the city editor returned. He came in and said quietly:

“I found the notice. At least, I suppose this is it. What is the old man's full name?”

“Horace W. Croydon.”

“This is it, then,” said the city editor, standing with his back to the door. “The notice reads: 'On March 3d, at the Arlington Hospital for Incurables, Rachel, widow of the late Horace W. Croydon, Sr., in her 59th year. Funeral services at the residence of Charles—'”

“Why,” interrupted the editorial writer, in a hushed voice, “that is a death notice.”

“His mother,” said the exchange editor. “The Hospital for Incurables—that is where the flowers went.”

The editorial writer's glance dropped to the desk, where the money lay for the intended gift. The exchange editor sat perfectly still, gazing straight in front of him. The city editor walked softly to the window and looked out.