He glanced at his watch, snapped the case, thrust it back into his pocket—and ran.
He estimated the time with reference to the publication hour of the Detroit afternoon papers.
He saw before him, as plainly as he saw the snow banks, one hour and thirty minutes. The period was material, tangible. Little Green, as he turned into Main Street and sped on toward Huron Street, not only saw it, but felt it; almost tasted it.
"Here, you!" he cried, bursting in upon the indolent operator in the little, box-like telegraph office.
He seized a block of blue-white paper that lay on the counter.
"What's up?" asked the operator dreamily.
By way of answer little Green thrust a sheet of the blue-white paper at him.
"Get that on the wire—hurry—it's a scoop."
The operator smiled sadly and checked off the words. He glanced up at the clock—regulated electrically from the observatory—and scribbled the "filing time" at the bottom of the sheet.
Little Green fidgeted.