"Rush three hundred," he called with a yawn.
Little Green grinned. Another page and he brought his "story" to a snappy end with a tiny, quick little sentence.
He knew the run of his own "copy."
He was conscious that he had exceeded the order by sixty words, approximately, and he hesitated an instant. Then thrusting the numbered sheets at the operator, he exclaimed: "Here, take it; I'll wait for another order."
In half an hour it came. It was for a photograph of Catherwood.
How little Green procured that photograph even after Catherwood's threat that he'd kill him if he used it, is a story in itself—a story for another time. But in less than an hour after the receipt of the telegraphic request it was in the post-office bearing on its plain wrapper a special delivery stamp.
It has been suggested that little Green was wise beyond his years. He was just wise enough not to tell all his story to an afternoon paper at so late an hour.
So, with a confidence born of a short but crowded experience, he sent out by wire eight queries to as many morning papers in the middle- and the further-west.
Meanwhile that occurred which little Green had been far-sighted enough to expect would occur.
The tall, angular, boy-faced agent of the Associated Press in Detroit wandered into the office of the Journal shortly after one o'clock.