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"But you didn't say massacred! You said they accidently went over the edge." "But it's only the tenth man will stop to think that. You run the cartoon, see?" said Bat, and, though he asked it as a question, if sounded final. The news-man went tearing back to the front editorial rooms. Bat went whistling down stairs, two steps at a bounce. At the half-way landing, he paused.
The news-man ran to the receiver and a moment later slammed it back on the hook. "Old frump, giving namby pamby talks on woman's influence in politics without votes." The news editor spat aimlessly. Bat tapped the story of the Rim Rocks with his pencil. "Well," he asked. "We'll give this flare." "We'll put this in red! God! The Senator is an artist! I like having to lick the hand that leashes me."
Didn't he take the morning limited for Washington?" "Well, the darn thing broke down so often it was bad as the stage. Anyway, I've got the story for you " "Senator O. K. it?" The news-man hung the telephone receiver up, still keeping his hand over the mouth piece. "Lord, no!" Bat slid off the table, tore the sheets from his note book and handed the story of the Rim Rocks across to the editor.
"Say," he yelled up, "you can use the same old cartoon; 'Keep Off the Grass, you know." "Eh? right," crossly from the front room. "And say?" The news-man came out and leaned over the upper railing. "Don't forget to take that tonic for your nerves." The news-man told Bat to go any where he pleased; but it was all in the day's work with Mr. Bat Brydges. He didn't go.
The handy man went straight across to the paper in opposition. The news-man went back to the front room and stood thinking. He didn't curse Bat nor emit fumes of the sulphurous place to which he had invited Brydges. He was contemplating what he called his "kids"; and he was figuring the next payment due on the Smelter City lots in which he had been speculating.
Every bar-room buffer in the country side will know it by night." "Then you had better get it straight," advised Bat. The news-man looked in space through eyes narrowed to an arrow. Bat watched sleepily. "If we choke this old chap's account off, can you give one to us?" "Got it in my pocket! I've just come in on the stage!" "I thought you came down in a motor with the Senator?
"Wull dance at the H i-o-f lodge meetin' at " "That'll do, get her out of this," ordered the news-man. "It grows worse every day. Every damphool thinks the world is aching for an interview with himself, from the mining fakirs to the Shanty Town brats: it's seeped down to the kids. You go home, kid, and tell your mother to spank you special extra "
The spirit of mischief had entered the heart of the news-man, and he had given Reuben the name of one of the very highest- priced, most luxurious hotels in the city. As the carriage stopped, Reuben marched boldly up the broad steps and entered the palatial office, with Emily close at his heels. Two bell- boys sprang forward the one to take the bags, the other to offer to show Mrs.
Bat was clicking his cigar case open and shut. This editor was all nerves too. Nerves seemed to go with the job; but these nerves were not jangled. He leaned back in his swing chair with one boot against the desk. "What makes a man successful, anyway? It isn't ability. Your news-man across the way could buy our office out with brains; but gee whitaker, he's worse than a dose of bitters!
I guess the kid is doing the same thing as you and me: 'Give us this day our daily bread. How's the story? Will you give it a flare head?" "Will there be any charge?" ironically repeated the news-man. "Not for Moyese," smiled the handy man sleepily, "and say, if I were you, I'd do one of two things, get rid of my conscience or get a tonic for my nerves." The telephone rang.
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