The Press: Renaud's World

Staccato footfalls beat a brisk tattoo through the city room of the New York World, down the long rows of worn old desks. A big, vociferous typhoon with red hair, blue shirt, trim tailored suit, swept with a round-the-world stride through the office, greeted a dozen reporters by their first names and vanished through a far door, leaving a strange quiet 'behind him. Herbert Bayard Swope, Executive Editor of the World and genius of its flying columns for eight years, was leaving his job.

Then in through the door that took the typhoon wafted a mild breeze, smiling slightly, somewhat unfamiliar but...

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