“Good! First of all get these engraved.” He excitedly handed the foreman Katherine’s two documents. “Each of ’em three columns wide. We’ll run ’em on the front page. And, Jake, if you let those get lost, I’ll shoot you so full of holes your wife’ll think she’s married to a screen door! Now chase along with you!”
Billy threw off his drenched coat, slipped into an old one hanging on a hook, dropped into a chair before a typewriter, ran in a sheet of paper, and without an instant’s hesitation began to rattle off the story—and Katherine, in a sort of fascination, stood gazing at that worth-while spectacle, a first-class newspaperman in full action.
But suddenly he gave a cry of dismay and his arms fell to his sides.
“My mind sees the story all right,” he groaned. “I don’t know whether it’s that ice-water or the drink, but my arms are so shaky I can’t hit the keys straight.”
On the instant Katherine had him out of the chair and was in his place.
“I studied typewriting along with my law,” she said rapidly. “Dictate it to me on the machine.”
There was not a word of comment. At once Billy began talking, and the keys began to whir beneath Katherine’s hands. The first page finished, Billy snatched it from her, gave a roar of “Copy!” glanced it through with a correcting pencil, and thrust it into the hands of an in-rushing boy.
As the boy scuttled away, a thunderous cheering arose from the Court House yard—applause that outsounded a dozen-fold all that had gone before.
“What’s that?” asked Katherine of Old Hosie, who stood at the window looking down upon the Square.