human
My good friend, said a learned bystander,
gpt
Your operations are mad.
human
Blix, it is with assorted sensations of pain and discomfort that one closes the covers of another newspaper novel,
gpt
Active Service, by Stephen Crane. If one happens to have some trifling regard for pure English, he does not come forth from the reading of this novel unscathed. The hero of this lurid tale is a newspaper man, and he edits the Sunday edition of the New York
human
Eclipse, and delights in publishing
gpt
about deformed and sightless infants.
human
The office of the 'Eclipse' was at the top of an immense building on Broadway. It was a sheer mountain to the heights of which the interminable thunder of the streets rose faintly. The Hudson was a broad path of silver in the distance. This leaves little doubt as to the fortunate journal which had secured Rufus Coleman as its Sunday editor. Mr. Coleman's days were spent in collecting yellow sensations for his paper, and we are told that he
gpt
Down! * * * A door flew open. Coleman stepped upon the elevator.
human
Well, Johnnie, he said cheerfully to the lad who operated the machine,
gpt
human
Yes, sir, pretty good, answered the boy, grinning. The little cage sank swiftly. Floor after floor seemed to be rising with marvelous speed; the whole building was winging straight into the sky. There was soaring lights, figures and the opalescent glow of ground glass doors marked with black inscriptions. Other lights were springing heavenward. All the lofty corridors rang with cries.
gpt
Up!
human
Down!
gpt
Down!
human
Up!!