“What’s left of the epidemic spread?” demanded the new arrival breathlessly.

“The killed story?”

“What’s left of it?” clamored Ellis, dancing all over his colleague’s feet.  “Can you find the copy?  Notes?  Anything?”

“Proofs,” said Wayne.  “I saved a set.”

Ellis sat down in a chair and regarded his underling with an expression of stupefied benevolence.

“Wayne,” he said, “you’re a genius.  You’re the fine flower and perfect blossom of American journalism.  I love you, Wayne.  With passionate fervor, I love you.  Now, gitta move on!!!” His voice soared and exploded.  “We’re going to run it to-morrow!”

“To-morrow?  How?  It isn’t up to date.  Nobody’s touched it since—­”

“Bring it up to date!  Fire every man in the office out on it.  Tear the hide off the old paper and smear the story all over the front page.  Haul in your eyes and start!”

The whirl of what ensued swamped even Bim’s cynic and philosophic calm.  Amidst a buzz of telephones and a mighty scurrying of messengers the staff of the “Clarion” was gathered into the fold, on a “drop-everything” emergency call, and instantly dispersed again to the hospitals, the homes of the health officials, the undertakers’ establishments, the cemeteries, and all other possible sources of information.  The composing-room seethed and clanged.  Copy-readers yelled frantically through tubes, and received columns of proofs which, under the ruthless slaughter of their blue pencils, returned as “stickfuls,” that room might be made for the great story.  Cable news was slashed right and left.  Telegraph “skeletons” waited in vain for their bones to be clothed with the flesh of print.  The Home Advice Department sank with all on board, and the most popular sensational preacher in town, who had that evening made a stirring anti-suffrage speech full of the most unfailing jokes, fell out of the paper and broke his heart.  The carnage in news was general and frightful.  Two pages plus of a story that “breaks” after 10 P.M. calls for heroic measures.

At 10.53 Mr. Harrington Surtaine arrived, hardly less tempestuously than his predecessor.  He did not even greet Bim as he passed through the gate, which was unusual; but went direct to Ellis.

“Can we do it, Mac?”

“The epidemic story?  Yes.  There was a proof saved.”

“Good.  Can you do the story of the meeting?”

Ellis hesitated.  “All of it?”

“Every bit.  Leave out nothing.”

“Hadn’t you better think it over?”

“I’ve thought.”

“It’ll hit the old—­your father pretty hard.”

“I can’t help it.”

A surge of human pity overswept Ellis’s stimulated journalistic keenness.  “You don’t have to do this, Hal,” he suggested.  “No other paper—­”

“I do have to do it,” retorted the other.  “And worse.”

Ellis stared.