As they stood so, there came a sudden shout and the sound of people
running to and fro in the reportorial rooms below. There was the tramp
of many footsteps on the stairs, and above the confusion they heard
the voice of the city editor telling some one to "run to Madden's and
get some brandy, quick."

No one in the composing-room said anything; but those compositors who
had started to go home began slipping off their overcoats, and every
one stood with his eyes fixed on the door.

It was kicked open from the outside, and in the doorway stood a cab-
driver and the city editor, supporting between them a pitiful little
figure of a boy, wet and miserable, and with the snow melting on his
clothes and running in little pools to the floor. "Why, it's
Gallegher," said the night editor, in a tone of the keenest
disappointment.

Gallegher shook himself free from his supporters, and took an unsteady
step forward, his fingers fumbling stiffly with the buttons of his
waistcoat.

"Mr. Dwyer, sir," he began faintly, with his eyes fixed fearfully on
the managing editor, "he got arrested--and I couldn't get here no
sooner, 'cause they kept a-stopping me, and they took me cab from
under me--but--" he pulled the notebook from his breast and held it
out with its covers damp and limp from the rain, "but we got Hade, and
here's Mr. Dwyer's copy."

And then he asked, with a queer note in his voice, partly of dread and
partly of hope, "Am I in time, sir?"