The night editor of Corkey's paper begins getting the Covode Investigation from Wiarton. He enjoins the foreman to start more type-setters. Reprint copy is freely set all night, and at dawn the real stuff begins to arrive.
"Appalling Calamity. Loss of 115 Lives on Georgian Bay. Only Two Saved. Graphic and Exciting Account of Our Special Survivor. Unparalleled Feat in Journalism."
Such are some of the many headings. They fill a column.
The night editor, the telegraph editors, the proof-readers, the type-setters, the ring-men, the make-ups, the press-men, are thrilled to the marrow. The printers can scarcely set their portions, they are so desirous to read the other takes.
"I didn't know Corkey had it in him," says Slug 75.
"You'd have it in you," answers Slug 10, "if you went through the wet like he did. How do you end? What's your last word?"
The victorious newspaper is out and on the streets--the greatest chronicle of any age--the most devout function of the most conventional epoch of civilization.
The night editors of all other city newspapers look with livid faces on that front page. They scan the true and succinct account of Corkey's interview, which reaches them an hour later. They indignantly throw it in the waste-basket, cut off the correspondents by telegraph, and proceed hurriedly to re-write the front page of their exemplar.
The able editor comes down the next day and writes a leader on the great shipwrecks of past times, the raft scene and the heroism of Corkey.
Corkey and his mascot are still at Wiarton. Corkey is superintending the search for the yawl and Lockwin's body.