six o'clock
Dunraven Bleak , the managing editor of The Evening Balloon , sat at his desk in the center of the local-room , under a furious cone of electric light . It was six o'clock of a warm summer afternoon : he was filling his pipe and turning over the pages of the Final edition of the paper , which had just come up from the press-room . After the turmoil of the day the room had quieted , most of the reporters had left , and the shaded lamps shone upon empty tables and a floor strewn ankle-deep with papers . Nearby sat the city editor , checking over the list of assignments for the next morning . From an adjoining kennel issued occasional deep groans and a strong whiff of savage shag tobacco , blown outward by the droning gust of an electric fan .