“Hello, my fellow-passengers,” he exclaimed heartily; “hello, Frank! hello, Harry!”—it was characteristic of Mr. Barnes, that although he had met the boys for the first time on the steamer he was calling them by their first names the second day out—“as I hinted to your father an hour or so ago, I’ve run into the biggest story of my career.”
“You rushed off in such a hurry that I could hardly call it even a hint,” smiled Mr. Chester.
“You’ll get jolly well laid up, Mr. Barnes, if you go rushing about like that in this climate—what?” put in Blakely.
“I beg your pardon, sir, really,” burst out the impulsive Billy contritely, addressing Mr. Chester, “but you know when a newspaper man gets on the track of a good story he sometimes forgets his manners. But you will be interested in my morning’s work.”
“Here’s what I’m digging on and if it isn’t a snorter of a story never let me see New York again.”
“Well, what is it, Billy?” asked Harry, “come on, never mind the fireworks—let’s have it.”
“Just this;” proudly announced the reporter, “General Rogero has only two fingers on his right hand.”
“Yes?” from the boys in puzzled tones.
“Well, what of it?” from Mr. Chester.
Billy was evidently artist enough to keep his listeners in suspense for he went on with great deliberation.