But the city editor's frowns no longer struck terror into Tom's heart, and he told the story briefly, while his hearer puffed rapidly at his pipe. Only once was he interrupted.
"Hold on there," said the editor. "Are you certain he said he'd not give out the statement again until he reached New York?"
"Quite certain," was the reply. Something almost resembling pleasure appeared on the city editor's face.
"He'll not get there until 8.30; too late for the evening papers. The biggest beat of the year, by George!" For a moment the glasses and the frown were lost in a cloud of smoke. Then "Go on," he commanded.
Tom finished his story in a few words; told how he had found a train already waiting at the Junction, how he had written out his copy on the way back to Washington; and how, had it not been for a long delay just outside the city, he would have reached the office in time for the regular edition. And when he had finished he waited for a word of commendation. But none came. Instead, the city editor nodded his head once or twice, thoughtfully, frowningly, and said: "Well, you needn't wait around any longer; there's nothing else to be done."
Tom arose, looking blankly at the speaker. Had he failed after all! Surely he was not being turned away? But the city editor's next words dispelled all doubt.
"We go to work on this paper at eight o'clock, Mr. Collins; and by eight I mean eight, and not ten minutes past. I can't have any man working for me who cannot be prompt. You understand?"
As Tom clattered happily downstairs a deep reverberation that shook the building from top to bottom told him that the presses were already printing the result of his first assignment.
PEMBERTON'S FLUKE
For an hour and a half Yale and Princeton had been battling on the gridiron; for an hour and a half the struggling lines had advanced and retreated from goal line to goal line; for an hour and a half the ball had gone arching up against the blue November sky, had been carried in short, desperate plunges or brilliant runs to and fro over the trampled white lines of Yale Field; for an hour and a half twenty-five thousand persons had watched the varying fortunes of the contest with fast-beating hearts, had waved their flags, sang their songs and shouted their cheers; and now, with the last half drawing toward its close, the score board still proclaimed: "Yale, 0; Opponents, 0."