Gallegher bent forward, and lashed savagely at the horse with his whip.

“Let me go,” he shouted, as he tugged impotently at the reins.  “Let me go, I tell you.  I haven’t stole no cab, and you’ve got no right to stop me.  I only want to take it to the Press office,” he begged.  “They’ll send it back to you all right.  They’ll pay you for the trip.  I’m not running away with it.  The driver’s got the collar—­he’s ’rested—­and I’m only a-going to the Press office.  Do you hear me?” he cried, his voice rising and breaking in a shriek of passion and disappointment.  “I tell you to let go those reins.  Let me go, or I’ll kill you.  Do you hear me?  I’ll kill you.”  And leaning forward, the boy struck savagely with his long whip at the faces of the men about the horse’s head.

Some one in the crowd reached up and caught him by the ankles, and with a quick jerk pulled him off the box, and threw him on to the street.  But he was up on his knees in a moment, and caught at the man’s hand.

“Don’t let them stop me, mister,” he cried, “please let me go.  I didn’t steal the cab, sir.  S’help me, I didn’t.  I’m telling you the truth.  Take me to the Press office, and they’ll prove it to you.  They’ll pay you anything you ask ’em.  It’s only such a little ways now, and I’ve come so far, sir.  Please don’t let them stop me,” he sobbed, clasping the man about the knees.  “For Heaven’s sake, mister, let me go!”

. . . . . . .

The managing editor of the Press took up the india-rubber speaking-tube at his side, and answered, “Not yet” to an inquiry the night editor had already put to him five times within the last twenty minutes.

Then he snapped the metal top of the tube impatiently, and went upstairs.  As he passed the door of the local room, he noticed that the reporters had not gone home, but were sitting about on the tables and chairs, waiting.  They looked up inquiringly as he passed, and the city editor asked, “Any news yet?” and the managing editor shook his head.

The compositors were standing idle in the composing-room, and their foreman was talking with the night editor.

“Well?” said that gentleman, tentatively.

“Well,” returned the managing editor, “I don’t think we can wait; do you?”

“It’s a half-hour after time now,” said the night editor, “and we’ll miss the suburban trains if we hold the paper back any longer.  We can’t afford to wait for a purely hypothetical story.  The chances are all against the fight’s having taken place or this Hade’s having been arrested.”

“But if we’re beaten on it—­” suggested the chief.  “But I don’t think that is possible.  If there were any story to print, Dwyer would have had it here before now.”

The managing editor looked steadily down at the floor.

“Very well,” he said, slowly, “we won’t wait any longer.  Go ahead,” he added, turning to the foreman with a sigh of reluctance.  The foreman whirled himself about, and began to give his orders; but the two editors still looked at each other doubtfully.