Tim’s fingers still raced as the words of the story flowed out. The deadline was past, yet they were holding the presses just for his story. Everything else was ready. The last of Ralph’s copy was coming off the linotypes out in the composing room. Make-up men, stereotypers and pressmen were all waiting for the final period on his story. Scores of newsboys were impatiently banging their heels down in the big circulation room listening for the roar of the presses which would signal that the noon edition was ready.
Perspiration stood out in beads on Tim’s forehead. There was so much to write and yet so little time in which to do it. He tore off each paragraph now, speeding it to the waiting linotypes.
Dan Watkins bent over him again.
“Only a minute left,” he said softly.
Tim nodded. He could write another column. That would have to come later when he polished up the story for the city edition. In a last, breathless paragraph he finished his story.
The copyreader almost tore it from his hands and ran toward the composing room. The story was done. It was eleven forty on the tick. Tim relaxed in his chair.
Ed Campbell stepped over.
“Great piece of writing,” said the city editor. “When do you leave?”
“This afternoon on the plane east,” replied Tim.
“We’ll miss you a lot,” went on Campbell, “but I know you’ll be sending us some swell yarns.”