Work pressing upon the editor from all sides came as a boon. The paper had to be made over for the catastrophe which, momentarily, overshadowed the typhus epidemic in importance. In hasty consultation, it was decided that the "special" on the ownership of the infected tenements should be set aside for a day, to make space. Hal had to make his own statement, not alone for the "Clarion," but for the other newspapers, whose representatives came seeking news and also—what both surprised and touched him—bearing messages of sympathy and congratulation, and offers of any help which they could extend from men to pressroom accommodations. Not until nearly two o'clock in the morning did Hal find time to draw breath over an early proof, which stated the casualties as seven killed outright, including Veltman who was literally torn to pieces, and twenty-two seriously wounded.
From his reading Hal was called to the 'phone. Esmé's voice came to him with a note of hope and happiness.
"Oh, Hal, they say there's a chance! Even a good chance! They've operated, and it isn't as bad as it looked at first. I'm so glad for you."
"Thank you," said Hal huskily. "And—bless you! You've been an angel to-night."
There was a pause: then, "You'll come to see me—when you can?"
"To-morrow," said he. "No—to-day. I forgot."
They both laughed uncertainly, and bade each other good-night.
Hal stayed through until the last proof. In the hallway a heavy figure lifted itself from a chair in a corner as he came out.
"Dad!" exclaimed Hal.
"I thought I'd wait," said the charlatan wistfully.