“I’m considering it.”
“Go to it,” laughed the other, lighting a cigarette and leaning gracefully on his walking stick. “Yonder’s the sewer; dig out your diamond. Uproot your lily!”
Annan said: “Do you want to bet I can’t go in there, wake up one of those unwashed, and, in ten minutes, get the roots of a story as good as any ever written?”
“If you weren’t in a class by yourself,” said the other, “I’d bet with you. Any ordinary newspaper man could go in there and dig up a dozen obvious news items. But you’ll dig up a commonplace item and turn it into an epic. Or you’ll dig up none at all, and come back with a corker——”
“I’ll play square——”
“I know you! The biggest story in the world, Barry, was born a punk little news item; and it would have died an item except for the genius who covered it. You’re one of those damned geniuses——”
“Don’t try to hedge!——”
“Don’t tell me! Nothing ever really happens except in clever brains. I can condense Hamlet’s story into a paragraph. But I’m glad Shakespeare didn’t. I’m glad the Apostles were——”
“You’re a crazy Irishman, Coltfoot,” remarked Annan, looking about him at the thousands of spectral sleepers. “Shut up. I need a story and I’m going to get one.... You don’t want to take my bet, do you?”
“All right. Ten dollars that you don’t get the honest makings of a real story in ten minutes. No faking! No creative genius stuff. Just bald facts.” He looked at his wrist-watch, then at his companion. “Ready?”