“I’ve got to print the story of Milly’s death:  the facts just as they happened.  And I’ve got to write it myself.”

The professional zest surged up again in McGuire Ellis.  “My Lord!” he exclaimed. “What a paper to-morrow’s ‘Clarion’ will be! But why?  Why?  Why the Neal story—­now?”

“Because I can’t print the epidemic spread unless I print the other.  I’ve given my word.  I told my father if ever I suppressed news for my own protection, I’d give up the fight and play the game like all the other papers.  I’ve tried it.  Mac, it isn’t my game.”

“No,” replied his subordinate in a curious tone, “it isn’t your game.”

“You’ll write the meeting?”

“Yes.”

“Save out a column for my story.”

Ellis returned to Wayne at the news desk.  “Hell’s broke loose at the Emergency Health meeting,” he remarked, employing the conventional phrasing of his craft.

And Wayne, in the same language, inquired: 

“How much?”

“Two columns.  And a column from the Boss on another story.”

“Whew!” whistled Wayne.  “We shall have some paper.”

From midnight until 2.30 in the morning the reporters on the great story dribbled in.  Each, as he arrived, said a brief word to Wayne, got a curt direction, slumped into his seat, and silently wrote.  It was all very methodical and quiet and orderly.  A really big news event always is after the first disturbance of adjustment.  Newspaper offices work smoothest when the tension is highest.

At 12.03 A.M.  Bim received two flurried Aldermen and the head of a city department.  At 12.35 he held spirited debate with the Deputy Commissioner of Health.  Just as the clock struck one, two advertising managers, arriving neck and neck, merged their appeals in an ineffectual attempt to obtain information from the youthful Cerberus, which he loftily declined to furnish, as to the whereabouts of anyone with power to ban or bind, on the “Clarion.”  At 1.30 the Guardian of the Gate had the honor and pleasure of meeting, for the first time, his Honor the Mayor of the City.  Finally, at 1.59 he “took a chance,” as he would have put it, and, misliking the autocratic deportment of a messenger from E.M.  Pierce, told that emissary that he could tell Mr. Pierce exactly where to go to—­and go there himself.  All the while, unmoved amidst protestation, appeal, and threat, the steady news-machine went on grinding out unsuppressible history for itself and its city.

Sharp to the regular hour, the presses clanged, and the building thrilled through its every joint to the pulse of print.  Hal Surtaine rose from his desk and walked to the window.  McGuire Ellis also rose, walked over and stood near him.

“Three pretty big beats to-morrow,” he said awkwardly, at length.

“The Milly Neal story won’t be a beat,” replied Hal.

“No?  How’s that?”

“I’ve sent our proofs to all the other papers.”