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What a success for the authorized reporter of the New York Herald, and for the number which should contain the article, if it should ever reach the address of its editor, the Honorable James Bennett! Gideon Spilett then wrote out a concise account, which was placed in a strong waterproof bag, with an earnest request to whoever might find it to forward it to the office of the New York Herald.
"It will be no use telling anyone about this even if we do get out of here, they'll say that we have had a rarebit dream." "That's so," assented Lathrop, "and honestly, Billy, are you sure we are awake?" "Sure," replied the reporter giving himself a vicious pinch, and exclaiming "Ouch!" But there was no time to talk further.
The next day, the 8th of December, was but a succession of the fainting fits. Herbert's thin hands clutched the sheets. They had administered further doses of pounded bark, but the reporter expected no result from it. "If before tomorrow morning we have not given him a more energetic febrifuge," said the reporter, "Herbert will be dead."
"If you're determined to take her, I'll ride over with you and bring him back. Io, think! Is it worth the risk? Let the reporter come. I can keep him away from you." A brooding expression was in the girl's deep eyes as she turned them, not to the speaker, but to Banneker. "No," she said. "I've got to get away sooner or later. I'd rather go this way.
The reporter was a spruce young gentleman, in a loud summer suit, with a rose in his button-hole, and the air of assurance which befits the commissioner of the public curiosity. "I am sent by The Planet," said the young man, "to show you this and ask you if you have anything to say to it." "What is it?" asked Henderson. "It's about the A. and B." "Very well. There is the president, Mr. Hollowell.
Inwardly he was asking himself what could be the dark secret in the past of this young woman that at the mere approach of a reporter even of such a nice-looking reporter as himself she should shake and shudder.
The title I forget; but by its subject it was connected with political or social philosophy. And one eminent testimony to its merit I myself am able to allege, viz., Wordsworth's. Singular enough it seems, that he who read so very little of modern literature, in fact, next to nothing, should be the sole critic and reporter whom I have happened to meet upon Mrs. Lee's work.
There was trouble in the Indiana city over the awarding of the pipe contract. In some way unknown to the press reporter, it had leaked out that a much lower bid than the one accepted had been ignored by the purchasing committee. A municipal election was pending, and the people were up in arms.
"So you know the Sphynx of the Yukon, do you?" "That's it. That's the name that blame newspaper called him. Sphynx nothing. Hollis Tisdale is the best known man in Alaska and the best liked. If the Government had had the sense to put him at the head of the Alaska business, there'd been something doing, my, yes." The reporter finished his period. "Don't let this interview bother you," he said.
To further their ends the bad men took away Jimmie, Larry's little brother, but the young reporter, and his friend Mr. Newton, traced the boy and found him. Peter Manton had a hand in the kidnapping scheme. By the sale of the Bronx land Mrs.
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