CHAPTER VI
"Enough snow for you?" Overman asked jovially as McLeod removed his jumper the next morning in his office at the Star-Times. "We're ready to stop it now because the World weather bureau finally owned up to its red face. Thirty-two inches."
McLeod nodded. He'd had trouble reaching the slidewalk through the drifts and more trouble struggling through the few yards of high-piled snow to the Star-Times building.
"Rewrite showed me the story you sent in last night, Darius. Wonderful. Someone over at the World must be biting his fingernails. They've got to be ready for split second changes in the newspaper business, though. If they don't, they're lost."
"What's that little bit of homely philosophy leading up to?" McLeod wanted to know. Overman rarely made his point without prefacing it with some mundane generalization. The more important the point, McLeod knew from experience, the triter the generalization.
"We've done a little G-2'ing these last few weeks, Darius." Overman seemed almost on the point of prancing nervously like an anxious racehorse at the starting gate. "I couldn't tell you until it was certain. Harry Crippens is a member of the Anti-Newspaper League." Overman grinned like a yawning owl. "Close your mouth, Darius. Stop gaping. It's the truth."
"But that doesn't make sense, chief." McLeod figured it made very good sense if Overman said so, but he needed time to collect his thoughts.