“To Jimmie Drury from ‘Oggie’ Durant.”
“Boy, oh boy!” Jimmie did a wild dance about the room. As he quieted down and turned back to the box from which he had unwrapped the camera something he had overlooked fell to the floor. It was a big-league baseball autographed by every member of the team.
“What a day!” Jimmie exclaimed. “How will I ever work now?”
But all that long day he answered to the call of:
“Boy!”
Down to the press rooms, up to the literary editor, across to the Woman’s Department and back to the Art Department he sped, always finding time to tell of his good luck and to receive sincere congratulations.
“What I won’t do with that new camera!” he exclaimed over and over.
Toward the close of that day Jimmie sat dreaming in his chair. What pictures he would take now! He would get some lulus of Oggie Durant in his next ball game. He surely would. But what of the Silent Terror? Would he be in his place razzing the millionaire pitcher? And would they get him? How many more people would hear those fateful words: “As you are?” And how many would waken once again to the light of day as he had done?
“We must get him! Get him!” He clenched his fists tight. “We will. We——”
He was recalled from his revery by a voice at his elbow.