back to earth.

"What's what?" Sam demanded.

At that moment Elliott, the managing editor, was passing
through the room his hands filled with freshly pulled proofs.
He swung toward Collins quickly and snatched up Sam's copy.
The story already was late--and it was important.

"What's wrong?" he demanded. Over the room there fell a
sudden hush.

"Read the opening paragraph," protested Collins. "It's like
that for a column! It's all about a girl--about a Red Cross
nurse. Not a word about Flagg or Lord Deptford. No speeches!
No news! It's not a news story at all. It's an editorial, and
an essay, and a spring poem. I don't know what it is. And,
what's worse," wailed the copy editor defiantly and to the
amazement of all, "it's so darned good that you can't touch
it. You've got to let it go or kill it."

The eyes of the managing editor, masked by his green paper
shade, were racing over Sam's written words. He thrust the
first page back at Collins.

"Is it all like that?"

"There's a column like that!"

"Run it just as it is," commanded the managing editor. " Use