"Yes; has the thing reached you already?"
"I don't know the whole story of the joke," Mr. Pollock replied, "but perhaps I can tell you one side of it that you don't know."
Thereupon the editor described Mr. Cantwell's visit to the bank. "Now, I've got a still further side to the story," Dick continued, and repeated the story told by the freshmen of how Mrs. Cantwell also had carried the money to the bank, and then, still carrying it, had waited for her husband at the school gateway.
Editor Pollock leaned back, laughing until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"I'm sorry for the good lady's discomfiture," explained the editor, presently. "But the whole story is very, very funny."
"Now, I guess you know all the facts," finished Dick Prescott, rising.
"Yes, but I haven't a single reporter about." Then, after a pause,
"See here, Prescott, why couldn't you write this up for me?"
"I?" repeated Dick, astonished. "I never wrote a line for publication in my life."
"Everyone who does, has to make a start some time," replied Mr. Pollock. "And I believe you could write it up all right, too. See here, Prescott, just go over to that desk. There's a stack of copy paper there. Write it briefly and crisply, and, for delicacy's sake, leave out all that relates to Mrs. Cantwell. No use in dragging a woman into a hazing scrape."
Dick went over to the desk, picking up a pen. For the fist three or four minutes he sat staring at the paper, the desk, the floor, the wall and the street door. But Mr. Pollock paid no heed to him. Then, finally, Dick began to write. As he wrote a grin came to his face. That grin broadened as he wrote on. At last he took the pages over to Mr. Pollock.