Over the metropolitan area, the scene was one beggaring description. All the five boroughs were a blazing checker-board. New Jersey, Connecticut, Westchester—all were raging. Hundreds of those deadly bombs must have burst in Manhattan alone.
But the fire department there seemed to have the situation in hand, he noticed as he swept down onto the Plaza landing platform.
Leaving his plane with an attendant, he took the first elevator to the street level, and crossing hastily to the Press tower, mounted to the city room.
There absolute pandemonium raged. Typewriters were sputtering, telegraph keys clicking, phones buzzing, reporters coming and going in a steady stream, mingled with the frantic orders of editors, sub-editors, copy readers, composing-room men and others.
Carter fought through the bedlam to the city editor’s desk.
“Sorry I couldn’t bring you that egg, Chief,” he said, with a grim smile. “I had one right in my hand, but it hatched out on me.”
Overton looked up wearily. He was a man who had seen a miracle, a godless miracle that restored his faith in the devil.
“Don’t talk—just write!” he growled. “I’ve seen and heard too much to-night. We’re all going to hell, I guess—unless we’re already there.”
But Jim wasn’t ready to write yet.
“What’s the dope elsewhere? The same?”