In San Francisco, waiting for the departure of his train east, a card was sent up to Cobden’s hotel room. It was from Chris Heidt, the managing editor of his former newspaper connection.
“Hello, Cobden. Just noticed you were off ship. What did you bring back?”
Dicky reflected. “The story of Amritsar,” he said finally.
“Amritsar, what’s that?”
“The first big story I ever ran across. I feel like one of Job’s servants, who said he alone remained to make a report.”
Mr. Heidt had been much on trains during the past few days, and had missed the fact, so far, that The Public Square had begun to publish the story.
“Not going to bury it in a weekly, are you?”
“I have much more than The Public Square could use in months. It really should get out into the broad market. The end of one world and the birth of another took place that Sunday in Amritsar—all in miniature, you understand——”
He spoke of Gandhi, whose name had scarcely been heard at this time in America, and touched upon the story of maidan.
“Sure,” said Mr. Heidt. “Sure, it’s a big yarn, but months ago. No way to substantiate it. You’re a little out of perspective, Cobden, seeing it all first hand that way.”