“And what happened?” asked Miss Trevor.
“Why, just what you see now. The Managing Editor, Mr. King over there—I’ll introduce him to you presently—went up to a group of men standing at one of the windows. They were pretending indifference as they looked down at the crowd which was shouting and tossing its arms in a way that more than suggested pity for us poor devils up here. Well, King said: ‘Boys, boys, this isn’t getting out a paper.’ Every one went back to his work and—and that was all.”
They went on to the room behind the newsroom. As Howard opened its heavy door a sound, almost a roar, of clicking instruments and typewriters burst out. Here again were scores of desks with men seated at them, every man with a typewriter and a telegraph instrument before him.
“These are our direct wires,” Howard explained. “Our correspondents in all the big cities, east, west, north and south and in London, are at the other end of these wires. Let me show you.”
Howard spoke to the operator nearest them. “Whom have you got?”
“I’m taking three thousand words from Kansas City,” he replied. “Washington is on the next wire.”
“Ask Mr. Simpson how the President is to-night,” Howard said to the Washington operator.
His instrument clicked a few times and was silent. Almost immediately the receiver began to click and, as the operator dashed the message off on his typewriter the two women read over his shoulder: “Just came from White House. He is no better, probably a little worse because weaker. Simpson.”
“And can you hear just as quickly from London?” Marian asked.
“Almost. I’ll try. There is always a little delay in transmission from the land systems to the cable system; and messages have to be telephoned between our office in Trafalgar Square and the cable office down in the city. Let’s see, it’s five o’clock in the morning in London now. They’ve been having it hot there. I’ll ask about the weather.”