docks from the north pier to the lumber district on Ashland avenue, and
all since supper?

The marine editor sits back rigidly in his chair. The head quakes, the
tongue plays, he looks defiantly at the night editor.

"She's coming," says the assistant telegraph editor, holding down his
shears and paste-pot.

The head quakes, but it is not a sneeze. It is a deliverance, _ex
cathedra_. The night editor wants to hear it.

"You bet your sweet life, Mrs. Corkey," says the commodore, "screw her
nut up four flight of stairs. That's what Mrs. Corkey do!"

The compliments of the evening are over. It is a straining of every
nerve now to get a good first edition for the fast train.

"Gale to-night, Corkey," says the telegraph editor. "We've taken most
of your stuff for the front page. The display head isn't long enough.
Write me another line for it."

"Hain't got nothing to write," Corkey doesn't like to have his report
taken out of its customary place. When there are blood-curdling wrecks
he wants the news in small type along with his port list.

"Hain't got nothing to write," he repeats sullenly. He gapes and
stretches. He knows he must obey the telegraph editor.

"Hurry! Give it to me. Give me the idea." Corkey's eye brightens.