Mr. Latimer stepped to his superior’s desk and took up the telephone.
“See if Winton is back yet,” he asked sharply.
“Mr. Winton called a few minutes ago,” was the instant response from one of the switchboard operators. “He says them parties is at the Breslin but he ain’t seen ’em yet. He wants as you shall call the Breslin what he shall do.”
Mr. Latimer turned to the head editor, the telephone yet in his hand:
“Yes, sir; they are at the Breslin. Our man hasn’t seen them. They’ve probably turned him down.”
The managing editor thought a moment, in which interval of silence he relit his cigar and then nodded an approval.
“That’s all,” answered the night city editor to the operator, “no message now.” And he replaced the receiver. Mr. Latimer’s attitude seemed to indicate that he knew something important was about to happen. Buck, himself—only temporarily relieved that the storm had not yet broken on him—also cudgeled his brain to account for his interrogation.
“You’ve stopped the story?” continued the managing editor at last.
“Yes, sir,” answered Mr. Latimer ruefully, “although most of it is in type. It was a beat.”
“I understand,” said the editor instantly and in a consoling tone. “Perhaps we can get a bigger beat.” He began tearing another bit of paper. Then throwing the pieces suddenly from him, he sat upright, grasped the arms of his chair and said to Latimer: