All over the city the cries were starting up, keen and sonorous, heralding the chances that the slipping of one cogwheel in the machinery of time had made; apportioning to the sleepers while they lay at the mercy of fate, the vengeance, profit, grief, reward and doom that the new figure in the calendar had brought them. Shrill and yet plaintive were the cries, as if the young voices grieved that so much evil and so little good was in their irresponsible hands. Thus echoed in the streets of the helpless city the transmission of the latest decrees of the gods, the cries of the newsboys—the Clarion Call of the Press.
Woods flipped a dime to the waiter, and said: "Get me a Morning Mars."
When the paper came he glanced at its first page, and then tore a leaf out of his memorandum book and began to write on it with the little gold pencil.
"What's the news?" yawned Kernan.
Woods flipped over to him the piece of writing:
"The New York Morning Mars:
"Please pay to the order of John Kernan the one thousand dollars reward coming to me for his arrest and conviction.
"Barnard Woods."
"The New York Morning Mars:
"Please pay to the order of John Kernan the one thousand dollars reward coming to me for his arrest and conviction.
"Barnard Woods."
"I kind of thought they would do that," said Woods, "when you were jollying them so hard. Now, Johnny, you'll come to the police station with me."