because no living human being could resist the personal triumph it
was to hand his picture over to Vesey. Vesey always wrote his own
news stories, except the big ones, which were sent to the rewrite
men. Add to this fact that among all the inhabitants, temples, and
groves of the earth nothing existed that could abash Vesey, and his
dim sketch is concluded.

Vesey butted into the circle of cipher readers very much as
Heffelbauer's "code" would have done, and asked what was up. Some
one explained, with the touch of half-familiar condescension that
they always used toward him. Vesey reached out and took the
cablegram from the m. e.'s hand. Under the protection of some
special Providence, he was always doing appalling things like that,
and coming, off unscathed.

"It's a code," said Vesey. "Anybody got the key?"

"The office has no code," said Boyd, reaching for the message. Vesey
held to it.

"Then old Calloway expects us to read it, anyhow," said he. "He's up
a tree, or something, and he's made this up so as to get it by the
censor. It's up to us. Gee! I wish they had sent me, too. Say--we
can't afford to fall down on our end of it. 'Foregone, preconcerted
rash, witching'--h'm."

Vesey sat down on a table corner and began to whistle softly,
frowning at the cablegram.

"Let's have it, please," said the m. e. "We've got to get to work on