I.
"Great guns!" The ejaculator tipped his straw hat off with his lefthand, let it roll upon the office floor, made a dab for a damp pockethandkerchief in his right pistol pocket, and stared at the yellow paperagain. "Whew! I don't believe it!" he muttered. Then, aware that thekeen eyes of the three-and-a-half-foot messenger boy were upon him, asif sizing him up for news, he stared at the telegram again, mumbled"It's a fake! Great guns!" and rushed from the room.
The messenger boy looked after the editor's retreating form with aknowing wink, as if the whole thing had been a special job put up byhimself, whistled "Annie Rooney," took up a tattered copy of "FamousQuotations," laid it down again with an expression of mingled respectand scepticism, characteristic of his kind, and then swaggered out ofthe editorial sanctum.
"Well, Swift, what's up now?"
The editor-in-chief of the _Daily Planet_ (Democratic) lifted his young,alert face from the evening edition of his own journal to that of hisnews editor. Interruptions were the expected thing in that stirringoffice.
Swift did not speak, but laid the telegram upon the desk, pulled out aVictoria Regina, and chewed it nervously. The chief read the messagethrough once to himself, gave one glance at the face of his subordinate,and then said:
"This is a repeat, is it not?"
"Yes sir. First news came three hours ago. I didn't believe it. Thoughtit a fake. Half think so still. I wouldn't insert it, and wired for animmediate reply. Here it is. It is too late for the five o'clockedition. What shall I do?"
"Well, this _is_ extraordinary!" conceded the chief. This admissionmeant a great deal in that office, deluged with news from all parts ofthe world, where it frequently happened that fourteen columns ofpurchased and paid for telegraphic despatches were not consideredimportant enough to use, and were dropped in the waste-paper basket. Thechief pressed the button in his desk and asked the boy that appeared toinform Mr. Ticks that he was wanted at once.
Mr. Stalls Ticks answered the summons promptly. He was a sallow, faded,middle-aged man, dressed in a sere and faded Prince Albert coat, withsallow and faded boots. In fact, the whole appearance of this invaluablemember of the _Planet_ corps gave one the impression of the last minuteof autumn, when even the trunks of the trees, the stones of the hills,the soil of the valleys look sere and yellow and faded and ready for awinter's sleep. Mr. Ticks looked as if he were waiting for the trancethat never overcame him.
"I wish to know something of Russell, the capital of the new State ofHarrison, Mr. Ticks."
Mr. Ticks pulled out a yellow, faded, silk bandanna, wiped hisspectacles sadly, and with an over-aspirated tone asked:
"Yes, sir?"
Mr. Swift looked at him with mingled disgust and respect, and tapped hisfoot impatiently on the bare floor.
"Let me see; it is situated?" proceeded the chief quietly.
"On the southeast shore of the Great Gopher lake." Mr. Ticks finishedthe sentence mechanically.
"Ah! I remember. Its population?"
"Twenty-nine thousand five hundred and fifty-two. It increases at therate of thirty a day."
"Exactly so! It is--?"
"Just two years nine months and twelve days old."
"To be sure. Its property--?"
"Is one hundred and sixty-four million dollars, in round numbers."
"Of course. Its industries are--?"
"The usual pertaining to Western cities, I suppose. I confess ignoranceto concrete particulars. The reports have been singularly deficient inthis respect. I credit this entirely to its youth."
"Indeed! Its railroad facilities--?"
"The C. H. & S. F. is its great trunk line. Three branch lines havetheir centre there--just built. Two roads are surveyed to shorten thedistance to Chicago and San Francisco respectively."
"Any other facts of interest, Mr. Ticks?" Mr. Ticks hesitated.
"Well--no--yes--no. In fact, there is nothing of special importance thatI--that is different from any other city--except--nothing, sir, that Iam willing to stake my professional reputation upon; you must excuse me,sir."
"Is it in the cyclone area, Mr. Ticks?"
"No, sir. The centre of barometric depression is farther north. TheBuzzard mountains to the south deflect all such storm centres. Russellwill be singularly free from tornadoes."
The editor-in-chief looked somewhat nonplussed, and handed Mr. Ticks thetelegram, with the remark:
"What do you think of that?"
"I do not know, sir. I cannot give an opinion."
"I, Mr. Ticks, I for one believe this is true. I'll--I'll stake myreputation on it!" said Swift decidedly. Mr. Ticks' exasperating cautiongrated on the news editor and converted his scepticism into conviction.
"If it is," replied his chief, quietly, "you can start for the sceneto-night on the six thirty express. You did up the Charlestonearthquake. You were the first on the spot at Johnstown, and thispromises to be as bad--or as good."
Swift tried to look indifferent at this cumulation of trust. He had beenon the paper for five years; he had started in as night reporter, andhis own ability and quickness, united with a certain caution, one mightcall it a news integrity, had raised him to his present position. The_Planet_ had the singular reputation of printing the truth. It rarelywas "taken in," with a false item. It aspired far beyond the local.
The _Planet_, under the able management of its chief and of Swift, hadbecome the mirror of the world. And, if at times it reflected importantnews from a convex surface, it did no more and far less than themajority of its contemporaries, who had no telegraphic facts to throwaway daily, and who, when hard pressed to it, manufactured a murder athome or a war rumor abroad to help pad their lean columns.
"Let me see! It is five forty-five," continued the chief, consulting hiswatch. "I will not detain you any longer, Mr. Ticks. We shall want acolumn from you on Russell, to-night. And now, Swift,"--when Mr. Tickshad faded out of the room,--"who's this correspondent signed D.?"
"It's Dubbs. You know him. Associated press man and specialcorrespondent. Never failed me. He's the only one there who knows ourcipher."
The editor-in-chief did not change his expression, but his eyes had thesteady, stern look that showed easy determination. He quickly wrote afew words on his pad and handed them to his favorite "sub."
"Take this to the cashier! Get to the elevated as fast as you can! Buywhat you need when you get time, and--_go!_ I depend on you for thefullest description to be had. If you do as well as you did on theConemaugh, I'll give you a raise on your return. Good luck to you."
It did not take Mr. Swift five minutes to rush to his den, slip on hiscoat, snatch his hat from the floor, run downstairs, receive a fat rollof bills from the phlegmatic cashier and bolt for the elevated train. Intwenty-five minutes he was at the central station, with two minutes tospare. He nodded pleasantly to the gatekeeper and boarded the train asnonchalantly as if he were going to his suburban boarding-house.