"She's coming," says the assistant telegraph editor, holding down his shears and paste-pot.
The head quakes, but it is not a sneeze. It is a deliverance, ex cathedra. The night editor wants to hear it.
"You bet your sweet life, Mrs. Corkey," says the commodore, "screw her nut up four flight of stairs. That's what Mrs. Corkey do!"
The compliments of the evening are over. It is a straining of every nerve now to get a good first edition for the fast train.
"Gale to-night, Corkey," says the telegraph editor. "We've taken most of your stuff for the front page. The display head isn't long enough. Write me another line for it."
"Hain't got nothing to write," Corkey doesn't like to have his report taken out of its customary place. When there are blood-curdling wrecks he wants the news in small type along with his port list.
"Hain't got nothing to write," he repeats sullenly. He gapes and stretches. He knows he must obey the telegraph editor.
"Hurry! Give it to me. Give me the idea." Corkey's eye brightens. He is a man of ideas, not of words. He has an idea. His head quakes. The tongue begins its whirring like the fan-wheel before the clock strikes.
"You can say that the life-saving service display a great act," says the marine editor, relieved of a grievous duty.
His pile of telegrams grows smaller. The dreaded work will soon be over.