Jews, hurrying by with bearded chins on their bosoms and eyes intent, shrugged their shoulders at the name "Transcript," and shrugged till they were out of sight.

Italians sauntering behind their fruit carts answered my inquiry with a lift of the head that made their earrings gleam, and a wave of the hand that referred me to all four points of the compass at once.

I was trying to catch the eye of the tall policeman who stood grandly in the middle of the crossing, a stout pillar around which the waves of traffic broke, when deliverance bellowed in my ear.
"Herald, Globe, Record, _Tra-avel-er_! Eh?
Whatcher want, sis ?" The tall newsboy had to stoop to me.

"Transcript?
Sure!" And in half a twinkling he had picked me out a paper from his bundle.

When I explained to him, he good-naturedly tucked the paper in again, piloted me across, unravelled the end of Washington Street for me, and with much pointing out of landmarks, headed me for my destination, my nose seeking the spire of the Old South Church.
I found the "Transcript" building a waste of corridors tunnelled by a maze of staircases.