The Chief had gone home early to-night and had paused on his way out to ask Brennan how the news was breaking and instruct him to "boil everything down." If there was anything that McAllister detested it was a thirty-six point head on a twelve-point item. "Kerr! Jackson! Brock!" Every typewriter in the city room stopped clacking and the three reporters jumped.
Sweat had once streaked his haggard face, but it was dry and blanched to a pasty gray. Doc injected enough narcotic to quiet a maddened bull. It had no effect, except to upset the rhythm of the arms and legs. It took five more minutes for the man to die. The specks were larger this time the size of periods in twelve-point type. The lump at the base of the skull was as big as a small hen's egg.