"It won't be long before Keating finds out," said the Journal man.
"Oh, I didn't know that," ventured the new reporter, who had just
come South from Boston. "I thought he didn't drink. I never see
Keating in here with the rest of the boys."
"You wouldn't," said Norris. "He only comes in here by himself, and
he drinks by himself. He's one of those confidential drunkards, You
give some men whiskey, and it's like throwing kerosene on a fire,
isn't it? It makes them wave their arms about and talk loud and break
things, but you give it to another man and it's like throwing
kerosene on a cork mat. It just soaks in. That's what Keating is.
He's a sort of a cork mat."
"I shouldn't think the C. P. would stand for that," said the Boston
man.
"It wouldn't, if it ever interfered with his work, but he's never
fallen down on a story yet. And the sort of stuff he writes is
machine-made; a man can write C. P. stuff in his sleep."
One of the World men looked up and laughed.
"I wonder if he'll run across Channing out there," he said. The men
at the table smiled, a kindly, indulgent smile. The name seemed to
act upon their indignation as a shower upon the close air of a
summer-day.
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