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"Let's give it a shot," cried Billy, and before any one could stop him, the young reporter fired at the creature. To their amazement, instead of diving, as do most whales when injured by a bullet or otherwise, the creature raised its blunt head and gazed at them out of a wicked little red eye. "What what what's the matter with him do you suppose?" gasped Billy.
Horsham Manor, one of the wonders of the State, is surrounded, as is well known, by a wall of solid masonry, and much secrecy was observed in the training of the so-called Robinson, all visitors being denied admittance at the lodge gates. The reporter, however, managed to gain admittance and reached Mr.
For, while the lion roared and the pistols banged, and we reporters tumbled over each other to get a glimpse of the attack of the lion on the strong man, or vice versa, lo! a voice below shouted to close the trap, and the same instant a board from below shot across the opening and completely obliterated our view. "We'll have to fake that part of the fight," said a reporter.
The mysterious one looked at Larry for several seconds. He seemed much excited, and in doubt as to what to do. Then, seeming to arrive at a sudden decision, he quickly closed the door, and Larry heard the key turned in the lock. "Not much satisfaction in that," muttered the young reporter. "That was him, though. I wonder what I had better do?" Larry stood in the hallway, undecided.
The building used for offices was smaller and had a veranda facing the street. Up the sides of the office building vines grew. Like the reporter who had watched the Marching Men in the field by the factory wall John Van Moore was a dapper young man with a moustache. In his leisure hours he played a clarinet. "It gives a man something to cling to," he explained to his friends.
"I have been easy enough to find. I'm only a news reporter. Why have you been looking for me?" Connemorra sank into a deep chair on the opposite side of the room. "Can't you guess?" he said. "It has something to do with what happened before?" Mel asked. He backed warily against the opposite wall from Connemorra.
"No soap, Chief. O K. O K. All right put the rewrite man on." And for the next ten minutes he went over the events at the Dinkmans', carefully spelling out all names including the napoleonic firechief's. I began to suspect Gootes wasnt so inefficient a reporter as he appeared. The story given in, he hung up and turned to me. "Well, so long, little man been nice knowing you."
Suddenly the indefinable something uttered a yell, and resolved itself into a party of miners, led by the gallant and aggrieved major himself, who shouted: "Lynch the scoundrel, boys that's the only thing to do!" The excited reporter sprang to his feet in an agony of genuine humanity and suppressed itemizing, and screamed: "Major, wait a minute you'll be sorry if you don't!"
"I'm sure he was just going to tell me where Mr. Potter is," thought the reporter. "Now it means a long wait, if I ever find out at all from him." He told Mr. Emberg what had happened. The city editor decided to follow out his first plan, of not connecting the accident at the pier with the Potter mystery. "If he has to be operated on for a fractured skull," Mr.
And with these flashes were others that came from windows and roofs with the report of a bursting bomb, and that, on the instant, turned night into day, and then left the darkness more dark. Ford gave a cry of delight. "They're taking flash-light photographs," he cried jubilantly. "Well done, you Pressmen!" The instinct of the reporter became compelling.
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