OLD FACES HELP DEFINE WANING CENTURY.

Byline: Dennis McCarthy 

A few of our old pals dropped by the city room New Year's eve to say goodbye. I just knew they couldn't stay away. Not on a big story like this.

The century they had all helped define for us in their newspapers and movie roles was coming to a close, and they wanted one more shot at a byline - just in case this Y2K threat was on the level.

Hildy Johnson just blew by my desk on her way to scream at Walter Burns some more. The way they're yelling at each other, looks like they're getting married again.

``Hiya, boys,'' Hildy said later, walking by the city desk and brushing back her big hat. ``Miss me?''

Yeah, Hildy, we did. There isn't an ink-stained wretch worth his or her old Royal or Smith Corona who doesn't blame ``His Girl Friday,'' and ``Front Page'' for getting them in the newspaper game.

Damon Runyon just walked in from his beat - Broadway. The cops busted Sorrowful Jones again, he said, and the bookies down at Lindy's are laying 5-1 this Y2K thing has a glass chin.

He'll file 10 inches on it, Runyon says - right after he gets back from the craps game in the Biltmore garage.

Star reporter Gene Fowler is over on the city desk handing his car keys to his 16-year-old kid, Will, who will follow him into the business.

Fowler's on deadline writing about some headless dame the cops just found down on Main St., then he and his pals W.C. Fields, John Barrymore and Jack Dempsey are going to hit some of the nightspots. Will's driving, as usual.

Over in the slot, Aggie Underwood, the first woman city editor in the country, is working the phones, making sure all her reporters have the bases covered down at the cop shop and city hall.

``Write fast, and come on in early because I'm buyin','' Aggie's telling them, reaching down into her bottom desk drawer to make sure none of the rewrite guys have been dipping into her bottle of Jack Daniels again.

Florebel Muir of the old L.A. Mirror is out on the boulevard looking for some fresh dirt for tomorrow's early street edition, while back in Society, Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons are checking out all the New Year's Eve bashes to find out who's cheating on whom.

Over in Sports, Red Smith and Grantland Rice are arguing over who the athlete of the century really should be.

They all like Secretariat, but if it has to be a human, the Babe takes it hands down, they agree.

Mike Royko is busy trying to find some fresh angles for his column on all the new millennium hype.

The way he sees it, the old millennium looked better.

Humphrey Bogart has his sleeves rolled up again like he did in ``Deadline, USA.'' He's down in the composing room telling the printer they're going to have to replate page one.

A couple of his reporters just found the mayor with a lampshade on his head and a blonde on each arm. And neither one of them was Mrs. Mayor.

Ernie Pyle's over in the corner trading war stories with Will Rogers. Ernie figures the biggest threat of the century was the Nazis.

Will's scratching his head and saying, ``Nope, Ernie, it was the politicians.''

Edwin O'Connor's over on the rewrite desk working on his book while waiting for the reporter covering the cop shop to call in with his booking sheet notes.

O'Connor's telling Ben Hecht - who's working on his own book - he's finally come up with a title.

How does the ``Last Hurrah'' sound, he wants to know?

Yeah, it's a beautiful sight to see all right on the last New Year's eve of the millennium.

All our old pals, real and fictitious, who helped define our century of journalism stopping by the city room to file one more story.

One last hurrah to a century.