“I object. Your Honour, I ask that that be stricken from the record!” Lambert’s frenzied clamour filled the room. “What Mr. Ives said——”
“It may be stricken out.”
Judge Carver’s tone was the sternest of rebukes, but the unchastened prosecutor stood staring down at her demure face triumphant for a moment, and then, with a brief expressive gesture toward the defense, turned her abruptly over to their mercies. “That’s all. Cross-examine.”
“No lunch to-day either?”
“No, I’ve got to get these notes off.”
The red-headed girl proudly exhibited an untidy pile of telegraph blanks and a much-bitten pencil. The gold pencil and the black leather notebook had been flung contemptuously out of the cab window on the way back to the boarding house the night before.
“Me too. We’ll finish ’em up here and I’ll get ’em off for you. . . . Here’s your apple.”
The red-headed girl took it obediently, a fine glow invading her. How simply superb to be working there beside a real reporter; such a fire of comradeship and good will burned in her that it set twin fires flaming in her cheeks. The newspaper game! There was nothing like it, absolutely. Her pencil tore across the page in a fever of industry.
It was almost fifty minutes before the reporter spoke again, and then it was only in reply to a question: “What—what did you think of her?”
“Think of whom?”