"Why, yes. I'm not the kind of chap who dies in bed, surrounded by the weeping members of the family, doctor, nurse, and priest. I'm a scoundrel; but it has this saving grace, I enjoy being the scoundrel. Now, I'm going up to the club. There's nothing like a game of billiards or chess to smooth that wrinkle which seems to worry you."
In the great newspaper office there was a mighty racket. Midnight always means pandemonium in the city room of a metropolitan daily. Copy boys were rushing to and fro, messengers and printers with sticky galleys in their hands; reporters were banging away at their typewriters, and intermingling you could hear the ceaseless clickety-click from the telegraph room.
The managing editor came out of his office and approached the desk of the night city editor.
"Editorial page gone down?"
"Twenty minutes ago," said the night city editor.
"I wanted a stick on that Panama rumpus."
"Too late."
"Where's Jim Norton?"
"At the chamber of commerce banquet. The major is going to throw a bomb into the enemy's camp."
"Nothing on the Hargreave stuff?"