“You’re packed to leave?”
Doyle offered him a crumpled telegram.
“This came while we were at Rascomb’s lodge.”
“From News-Vue?”
Doyle nodded gloomily.
“We’re ordered to cover a warehouse strike at Clinton. That’s a hundred miles from here if it’s a foot. They’re expecting fireworks tomorrow at seven o’clock when a crew of strike-breakers comes on duty.”
Flash read the telegram which confirmed Doyle’s words.
“This comes from not wiring Clewes we were spending the week-end at Rascomb’s place,” he commented.
“I made a mistake,” Doyle admitted reluctantly. “And now, well, I’m in a jam.”
“You still can reach Clinton by traveling tonight.”