Where official trailer and private sleuth had failed, the newspapers
might succeed--or so thought the disillusioned young men of the
Fourth Estate--the tireless foxes, nose-down on the trail of news
--the trackers, who never gave up until that news was run to earth.
Star reporter, leg-man, cub, veteran gray in the trade--one and
all they tried to pin the Bat like a caught butterfly to the front
page of their respective journals--soon or late each gave up,
beaten. He was news--bigger news each week--a thousand ticking
typewriters clicked his adventures--the brief, staccato recital of
his career in the morgues of the great dailies grew longer and more
incredible each day. But the big news--the scoop of the century
--the yearned-for headline, "Bat Nabbed Red-Handed", "Bat Slain in
Gun Duel with Police"--still eluded the ravenous maw of the
Linotypes. And meanwhile, the red-scored list of his felonies
lengthened and the rewards offered from various sources for any
clue which might lead to his apprehension mounted and mounted till
they totaled a small fortune.

Columnists took him up, played with the name and the terror, used
the name and the terror as a starting point from which to exhibit
their own particular opinions on everything and anything. Ministers
mentioned him in sermons; cranks wrote fanatic letters denouncing
him as one of the even-headed beasts of the Apocalypse and a
forerunner of the end of the world; a popular revue put on a special
Bat number wherein eighteen beautiful chorus girls appeared masked
and black-winged in costumes of Brazilian bat fur; there were Bat
club sandwiches, Bat cigarettes, and a new shade of hosiery called
simply and succinctly Bat. He became a fad--a catchword--a
national figure. And yet--he was walking Death--cold--