'Is Mr Horace Greeley in?' I enquired of a young man who sat
reading papers.
'Back soon,' said he, without looking up. 'Take a chair.'
In a little while I heard the same heavy feet ascending the stairway
two steps at a time. Then the man I had met came hurriedly into
the room.
'This is Mr Greeley,' said the young man who was reading.
The great editor turned and looked at me through gold-rimmed
spectacles. I gave him my letter out of a trembling hand. He
removed it from the envelope and held it close to his big, kindly,
smooth-shaven face. There was a fringe of silky, silver hair,
streaked with yellow, about the lower part of his head from temple
to temple. It also encircled his throat from under his collar. His
cheeks were fall and fair as a lady's, with rosy spots in them and a
few freckles about his nose. He laughed as he finished reading the
letter.
'Are you Dave Brower's boy?' he asked in a drawling falsetto,
looking at me out of grey eyes and smiling with good humour.
'By adoption,' I answered.
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