"I don't believe it! I won't! I can't! How the devil can a whole bunch of perfect Apollos disappear that way? There are not four such men in this State, anyway—outside of fiction and the stage——"
"I'm only reading you the official——"
Mr. Trinkle gulped; the chewing muscles worked in his cheeks, then calmness came, and his low and anxiously lined brow cleared.
"All right," he said. "Show me, that's all I ask. Go ahead and find just one of these disappearing Apollos. That's all I ask."
He shook an inky finger at them impressively, timing its wagging to his parting admonition:
"We want two things, do you understand? We want a story, and we want to print it before any other paper. Never mind reporting progress and the natural scenery; never mind telegraphing the condition of the local colour or the dialect of northern New York, or your adventures with nature, or how you went up against big game, or any other kind of game. I don't want to hear from you until you've got something to say. All you're to do is to prowl and mouse and slink and lurk and hunt and snoop and explore those woods until you find one or more of these Adonises; and then get the story to us by chain-lightning, if," he added indifferently, "it breaks both your silly necks to do it."
They passed out with calm dignity, saying "Good-bye, sir," in haughtily modulated voices.
As they closed the door they heard him grunt a parting injury.
"What an animal!" observed Sayre. "If it wasn't for the glory of being on the N. Y. Star——"
"Sure," said Langdon, "it's a great paper; besides, we've got to—if we want to remain next to Uncle Augustus."