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Updated: May 26, 2025
"My story proofs!" Pyott forced his eyes to meet those of the pale-faced boy looking up at him. The managing editor did so without an outward flinch. He was more or less used to such things. "You've made good, my boy!" He casually turned away before he spoke the next sentence. Trotter did not move. He did not even gulp.
"That's what I'm here for!" cried the exasperated youth. Still again the man at the desk eyed his visitor for a minute of silence. Then he reached for his telephone. "I want Kendrick and Gilman for some city work. Send 'em in to me. Yes, right away, please." Pyott swung about to his visitor once more. "I'm giving you our two best men. They'll do what you tell them to do."
It did not even startle him when Pyott himself held out a cold-fingered hand. "Good business!" was his chief's sardonic commendation. "Then I've made good?" asked the weary youth, without enthusiasm. "You've made your TEN-STRIKE!" was the answer. "You're on the city staff at twenty dollars a week." "When do I have to go over my proofs?" asked the tired-eyed and innocent youth. "What proofs?"
But Burns tells me he had enough money buried away to buy Tammany influence and get paroled. Can't you see what that means?" "Which way? To your office or to mine?" "To us! They've got him now, for life! They can get him back to Sing Sing and keep the whole cursed thing under cover!" There was a moment's silence before the cogitating Pyott spoke again.
But he was conscious of no spirit of elation as he stepped through the gate and passed on into that glass-fronted cage where Pyott, the managing editor, sat like a switchman in his many-levered tower. Trotter saw, seated at a desk before him, a thin-featured, thin-haired man of forty, with the crumpled-up eye-corners peculiar to the face that masks a circuitous and secretive mind.
"I'm talking about the lunacy of a one-cent journalist who's willing to risk even his own funds for the sake of an afternoon beat! I tell you, Pyott, the whole story's got to be stopped!" "What story?" "The Advance story! I've got your man Trotter here now. He " "Ah, Trotter!" exclaimed Pyott. He was at last beginning to see light.
In a newspaper office, where one impression so quickly and inevitably obliterates another, sensation is startling only in the fact of its ephemerality. For two busy hours wave after wave of the world's turbulence had beaten on the shoreline of the Advance staff's attention. Every one knew, from Pyott down, that the day was a "big" one.
So when Pyott, the managing editor, was called up on the wire by Obed Tyrer, the President of the First National Trust, the call from that quarter carried with it no responsive curiosity. "Can you come up here right away?" demanded the banker, in a voice of that coerced tranquillity into which the trained mind translates itself when face to face with undue excitement. "No; I can't!
This man now advanced into the center of the room, whilst a couple of soldierly-looking, stalwart fellows remained at attention on the threshold. "Let no one attempt to leave this room," he commanded. "Here, Bradden," he added, turning back to his men, "take Pyott with you and search that second room there ... then seize all those cards and dice and also that money."
Trotter's calm and deliberate tones were beginning to nettle the other man a little. "Then it hasn't actually been done?" "No!" "Yet you know it IS to be done?" "Yes!" Pyott was smiling by this time, quite broadly. "Would you kindly tell me just how you know all this? Just what first opened up the road to your somewhat startling knowledge?" "Some turkey bones!" "Ah, I see! Some turkey bones!"
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