"Well, the darn thing broke down so often it was bad as the stage.
Anyway, I've got the story for you—"
"Senator O. K. it?" The news-man hung the telephone receiver up, still keeping his hand over the mouth piece.
"Lord, no!" Bat slid off the table, tore the sheets from his note book and handed the story of the Rim Rocks across to the editor.
"What do you take the Senator for? He knows nothing about it; but it's in his constituency, and I guess his own paper should see that the account which goes in is straight."
The news-editor hoisted his foot to the seat of a chair and stood racing his eyes through sheet after sheet of Brydges's copy. Bat lighted a cigar, put his hands in his pockets and pivoted on his heels. There was the squeak, squeak, squeak of a child's new boots coming up the first flight of stairs; and a squeak, squeak, squeak up the second flight of stairs; and a little girl, not twelve years old, resplendent in such tawdry finery as might have stepped out of an East End London pawn shop, presented herself framed in the doorway of the reporter's room. She plainly belonged to the immigrant section of Smelter City. The news-editor never took his eyes from Bat's copy. They were eyes made for drilling holes into the motives behind facts. Bat emitted a whistle that was a laugh.
"Hullo," he said. "I knew they were coming on younger every year; but I didn't know we had gone into the kindergarten business yet. You don't want a job? Now don't tell me you want a job?"
The little person lifted a pair of very sober eyes beneath the brim of some faded plush headgear.
"Is thus th' rha-porther's room?"
"Sure! you bet!" Bat wheeled on both heels. The little person looked at him very steadily and solemnly.
"A' wannt," she said in that mongrel dialect of German-American and
Cockney-English, "A wawnt an iteem."