“That’s Toronto over yonder?” said Smith without ceremony.

“Indeed it is,” replied McMurtrie, taking stock of the dirty dishevelled figure.  “Your name’s not Smith?”

“Indeed it is!”

“Holy Moses!” ejaculated McMurtrie, and, to Smith’s amazement, he turned his back and sprinted at the speed of a race-horse towards the club-house a few hundred yards away.  He rushed to the telephone box, rang up his office, and, catching at his breath, waited with feverish eagerness for the answer to his call.

“You there, Daniels?  I’m McMurtrie.  For any sake stop press, cancel that leader, put back the tariff, votes for women, anything, only stop it....  What!...  Edition off the machine!...  Don’t let a copy leave the office....  What!...  First deliveries made!...  Recall ’em, or the paper’s ruined.  Smith’s here!...  No, This-something Smith ... no, you ass, the naval lieutenant, he flying man:  don’t you understand!... understand!... are you there?...  Get out a special edition at once....  Where’s Davis?  Bring him to the ’phone to take a note....  That you, Davis?  Take this down....  ’As we go to press we have the best of evidence for the statement that the marvellous world-flight of that intrepid young airman, Lieutenant Thistledown Smith, of the British Navy, is a sober fact, and not, as our sceptical wiseacres have asserted, an ingeniously concocted hoax.  Lieutenant Smith descended at 3:50 this afternoon on the Scarborough Bluffs, having accomplished the enormous distance from San Francisco without a stop, in the marvellous time of twelve hours, twenty-one minutes, and fourteen seconds.  In our final edition, which will be accelerated, we shall publish an interview with Lieutenant Smith, with exclusive particulars of his remarkable voyage and his romantic career.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Smith dryly.  He had entered with Mr. Cleave, and heard the frenzied editor’s concluding sentences.  “To begin with, I stopped at St. Paul, and was lucky enough to escape without attracting any attention.  I shouldn’t have been here but for the storm.”

“For goodness’ sake, Lieutenant, don’t tell anybody that.  A little stop at St. Paul isn’t worth making a fuss about.  You’ll come along into the city with me, and we will get a few of the boys together and give you a topping dinner.”

“I’d rather be hanged,” said Smith.  “The fact is, I only came down to get enough petrol on board to take me across the Atlantic.  You can tell me where to get what I want?”

“Indeed I can.  I tell you what.  I’ll ’phone for the petrol—­how much do you want?—­and get it out here in no time.  You won’t mind me ringing up a few particular friends, and inviting them out to see you?”

“Please don’t do anything of the kind.  I’m very tired; I’m not presentable; and I’ve no time to spare.”

“Sure you wouldn’t be after declining to answer a question or two—­to be worked up into an interview, you know?”