NO STORY

NO STORY[1]

The conversation I am going to tell you about took place in the reporter`s room of «The Morning Beacon».[2]  I was doing some work for this newspaper. I wrote about anything I could see in New York City during my long walks about its streets. I had very little money because I had no regular work.[3]

One day Tripp came in and stopped at my table. Tripp was working in the printing department. I think he had something to do[4] with pictures, because he always smelled of photographers` chemicals and his hands were always stained and burnt with acids. He was about twenty-five but looked forty. Half of his face was covered with a short red beard, which looked like a door-mat. He looked pale, miserable and unhealthy.