"That's my story."
"And I trust the locality agreed with him."
"Extremely well," was Trotter's mild-toned reply. "In fact, it was essential for him to be side by side with that particular bank building, where he could quietly tunnel his way through its back wall and burrow under its floors and eat a passage right through to its vaults."
The man at the desk sighed and looked at the obsessed youth with a smile too impersonal to be called pitying. "Vaults! That's a matter for the police. This is a newspaper office."
"But can't you see the story in it? Can't you see what it means when you're the only people who're in on it?"
"You'll have to show me your Eskimo!" remarked the unperturbed editor.
"That's what I'm here for!" cried the exasperated youth.
Still again the man at the desk eyed his visitor for a minute of silence. Then he reached for his telephone. "I want Kendrick and Gilman for some city work. Send 'em in to me. Yes, right away, please."
Pyott swung about to his visitor once more. "I'm giving you our two best men. They'll do what you tell them to do."
"But that'll make it THEIR story!" objected Trotter. "I want to land this myself. I want it to be mine."