He jumped on a ’bus that was going down-town, and at the intersection where the Avenue joins Broadway he alighted and boarded one of the surface cars. It was quite dusk when he reached the Argus office, and walking into the local room in an uncertain manner, he noticed that most of the men were out and that Blakeley was seated at his desk alone. The city editor was puffing at a big cigar, and did not notice the entrance of the young reporter.
Herbert was the first to speak.
“Mr. Blakeley,” he said, in a hushed sort of voice.
The city editor turned around like a flash.
“Hello there, Harkins,” he said eagerly; “I’ve been waiting for you all the afternoon. How did the thing pan out?”
“It didn’t pan out at all,” said Herbert in a hesitating, halting way.
“What do you mean?” cried the other, his tone perceptibly hardening.
“I mean that I have no story,” this in a slightly firmer voice.
“No story?” shouted the other, “why what are you talking about anyhow? There must be a story.”
“There was a story,” rejoined Herbert, now throwing all precaution to the winds; “but I can’t write it.”