“Whose nose?” asked Mr. Latimer wonderingly.
“Stewart’s, of course,” answered Bob. “He’s the Herald man, you know.”
“But I thought Stewart wasn’t coming back!” said the night city editor.
“I know he isn’t,” answered Bob with a wink. “But what if he does?”
“In that event,” replied Mr. Latimer, smiling, “he won’t need any instructions. We can count on him for twice what we can use. And we’ll run it as ‘The Only Passenger’s Story.’”
By two o’clock, each of the crew—except Ned—had gone through the final formality of farewell and mounted into the car. The big aeroplane, silent and strong, stood on the starting-ways facing the east, as if anxious for the touch that was to start its planes into vibrant life. Just within the open window of Mr. Atkinson’s office Mr. Latimer sat at the telephone, watch in hand. Just without, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows but with a heavy gray sweater on his arm, stood Ned. And, as in all crucial moments, the editor and Ned were speaking of the thing least related to their real thoughts. As if wholly unconcerned with the things about them they talked of trout fishing in Wisconsin.
When the telephone rang and the newspaper man responded he turned to Ned again with no excitement in his voice.
“The last form has gone to the stereotyping room,” he remarked almost casually.
“One fifty-six,” replied the boy outside.
“Correct,” answered Latimer. “They’ll be on time.”