The rural interviewers, unused to the needs of the city
service--faithful to the sources of their news--finish the concise
tale. It covers a quarter of a column.

That will never do for Corkey's paper. He knows it well.

He reaches Wiarton. He hurries to the telegraph office. He buys a
half-dozen tales of the sea. He finds a shipwreck to suit his needs.
He describes in a column the happy scenes in the cabin before the
calamity is feared. He depicts the stern face of the commander as he
stands, pistols in hand, to keep the passengers from the boats. The
full moon rises. The wind abates. A raft is constructed at a cost of
one column and a half of out and out plagiarism. Corkey, Lockwin and
forty wood-choppers are saved on the raft. The captain goes down on
his ship, refusing to live longer.

"You bet!" comments the laboring, perspiring Corkey. Corkey is a short
man, short in speech. This "full account" is a grievous
responsibility, for marine reporters are taught to "boil it down."

The raft goes to pieces in mid-sea, and the survivors take to the yawl.

Then Corkey returns and interpolates a column death scene on the raft.

"Too bad there wasn't no starving," he laments. "I was hungry enough
to starve."

The boat comes ashore in the breakers, and as the result of an
all-night's struggle with the muse of conventionality Corkey has seven
columns of double-leaded copy.