"I'm not particular; anything suits me. I'm the Press."
"The Press?"
"Yes, reporter." And, as one proud of his great connection, he named the King's favorite journal.
Never it is to be hoped to his dying day did that poor penny-a-liner know what a piece of news he allowed in that moment to slip by—news which to him would have meant almost a fortune; and here he was actually rubbing shoulders with it; and making no profit.
"How many arrested?" he inquired.
"I don't know."
"Any of the leaders yet?"
"I have not heard."
Unprofitable company; the man moved away. They were separated by a fresh movement of the crowd.
A royal mail-van drove through the square, the police with difficulty making way for it. And the crowd, mistaking it for something else, rushed off to gaze and cheer excitedly at the prisoners within. The postman who sat mounting guard over the netted window at the rear smiled wittily at the popular error which made him for a few brief moments so conspicuous a figure. No doubt the incident gave the newspaper-man some copy, and the van, having contributed its share to the general amusement, rolled on its way.