[THE AWAKENING]
John Vaughan had secured a loose horse on emerging from his friendly swamp. The shadows of night had given him the chance to escape. His horse was fresh, the rain had begun to fall, the heat had abated and he made good time.
He reached the office before midnight, took his seat at his desk, pale and determined to tell the truth. He wrote an account of the battle and the panic in which it had ended so vivid, so accurate, so terrible in its confession of riot and dismay, the editor refused to print it.
"Why not?" John sternly demanded.
"It won't do."
"It's true!"
"Then the less said about it the better. Let's hush it up."
John smiled:
"I'm sorry. I would like to see that thing in type just as I saw and felt and lived it. It's a good story and it's my last—it's a pity to kill it——"
"Your last? What do you mean?" the chief broke in.