“What?”
“Here you are—half a column story.”
Hilda came out on to the porch, and seized and scanned the paper. Her face burned as she read, and the hot, angry tears arose in her eyes. How dared they publish for all the world to read that her old dad was being beaten each night by that Englishman? She whirled around on the inoffensive reporter.
“Who wrote that beastly stuff? It’s a damned shame. Just goes to show what your old newspapers are. Did you write it?”
“No, no,” hastily denied the reporter. “I was only assigned to the job to-day. That’s some outside stuff telephoned in, probably by one of your neighbours. I’m here to follow up—to get a special story, in fact. And look here, Miss McPherson—you’re Miss McPherson, aren’t you?—well, look here, it’s better for us to get the dope directly from yourselves than have to make it up. I’m here to get a story, and I’m going to get it.”
“Well, let me tell you, you’ll have some sweet time getting it.”
“I intend to stay here till I do.”
“Here on our steps? I’d like to see you.”
“Well, not exactly on the steps—but on the job, at all events, I’ll camp down the road by the river, and I can cover the story just as well from there.”
Hilda threw him a look of withering scorn. Pushed the screen door open, and banged it, as well as the inside door, in the reporter’s face.