Both young reporters were alive to the excitement of the hour and they breathed their own interest into their stories. As a result the copy they placed on the managing editor’s desk was brilliant, readable material of the kind that would make any managing editor’s heart warm.
Carson read the stories with a quick eye, pencil poised to mark out errors. But he found none and when he had finished he leaned back in his swivel chair and smiled at Tim and Ralph.
“Another piece of fine work,” he said. “Believe me, you boys can write.”
“Stories like those don’t have to be written,” said Tim. “They write themselves.”
Carson glanced at the clock. It was almost noon.
“Better get some lunch if you’re going to fly the fingerprint expert back to the scene of the attempted robbery,” he said.
“We won’t have time to eat,” said Ralph.
“You’ll take time,” ordered the managing editor. “After all the energy and brain power you’ve used in writing these stories you need to give your bodies food.”
“Now this is an assignment. Go down to the Red Mill and order the biggest steaks they have in the house. Take at least forty-five minutes for your lunch and forget to pay the check as you leave. They’ll put it on my account. Mind now, I want you to relax. Your minds will work much better after you’ve had something to eat.”
The boys promised they would obey the managing editor’s instructions and went to the Red Mill where they discussed the events of the preceding hours over thick, juicy steaks.