Macdonald drew in his head and looked across the cab. But the seat was empty. The girl had slipped away already and presently he caught sight of her, disappearing into the station.
CHAPTER XXVII
CLOSE QUARTERS
Brennan, Night Editor of the Recorder, scribbled a two-column head, folded it in with a sheet of "flimsy," dropped it into the dumb-waiter box and yanked the string that shot it aloft to the composing room. He reached for his long scissors, snipped off a fresh piece of the typewritten C.A.P. report, fastened it with a daub of paste to a sheet of copy paper and marked it for a single-column "box," Page 1. The whistle blew in the speaking-tube at his elbow and he answered the foreman's question while scribbling his initials to the slip which a newly arrived messenger boy from one of the telegraph companies was holding flat for him.
"'Phone, Bren," called Chic White, Sporting Editor.
Brennan took down the receiver as a reporter laid a wad of new "copy" on the desk and hurried out again. Then Brennan opened a drawer in his desk and took another bite out of a ham sandwich before tearing the envelopes from the newly arrived telegrams.
Up until now things had been very quiet all evening, so quiet that the lay-out of a decent front page was a problem. The Chief had gone home early to-night and had paused on his way out to ask Brennan how the news was breaking and instruct him to "boil everything down." If there was anything that McAllister detested it was a thirty-six point head on a twelve-point item.
"Kerr! Jackson! Brock!"
Every typewriter in the city room stopped clacking and the three reporters jumped. They crowded together in the doorway as Brennan snapped his instructions.
"Get the Chief on the 'phone and hold him for me, Jackson. Here, Brock, sit in at the desk and keep everything down to a couple of sticks. Call a taxi, Kerr."