"Well, Swift, what's up now?" The editor-in-chief of the _Daily Planet_ (Democratic) lifted his young, alert face from the evening edition of his own journal to that of his news editor. Interruptions were the expected thing in that stirring office. Swift did not speak, but laid the telegram upon the desk, pulled out a Victoria Regina, and chewed it nervously. The chief read the message through once to himself, gave one glance at the face of his subordinate, and then said: "This is a repeat, is it not?" "Yes sir. First news came three hours ago. I didn't believe it. Thought it a fake. Half think so still. I wouldn't insert it, and wired for an immediate reply. Here it is. It is too late for the five o'clock edition. What shall I do?" "Well, this _is_ extraordinary!" conceded the chief. This admission meant a great deal in that office, deluged with news from all parts of the world, where it frequently happened that fourteen columns of purchased and paid for telegraphic despatches were not considered important enough to use, and were dropped in the waste-paper basket. The chief pressed the button in his desk and asked the boy that appeared to inform Mr. Ticks that he was wanted at once. Mr. Stalls Ticks answered the summons promptly. He was a sallow, faded, middle-aged man, dressed in a sere and faded Prince Albert coat, with sallow and faded boots. In fact, the whole appearance of this invaluable member of the _Planet_ corps gave one the impression of the last minute of autumn, when even the trunks of the trees, the stones of the hills, the soil of the valleys look sere and yellow and faded and ready for a winter's sleep. Mr. Ticks looked as if he were waiting for the trance that never overcame him. "I wish to know something of Russell, the capital of the new State of Harrison, Mr. Ticks." Mr. Ticks pulled out a yellow, faded, silk bandanna, wiped his spectacles sadly, and with an over-aspirated tone asked: "Yes, sir?" Mr. Swift looked at him with mingled disgust and respect, and tapped his foot impatiently on the bare floor. "Let me see; it is situated?" proceeded the chief quietly. "On the southeast shore of the Great Gopher lake." Mr. Ticks finished the sentence mechanically. "Ah! I remember. Its population?" "Twenty-nine thousand five hundred and fifty-two. It increases at the rate of thirty a day." "Exactly so! It is--?" "Just two years nine months and twelve days old." "To be sure. Its property--?" "Is one hundred and sixty-four million dollars, in round numbers." "Of course. Its industries are--?" "The usual pertaining to Western cities, I suppose. I confess ignorance to concrete particulars. The reports have been singularly deficient in this respect. I credit this entirely to its youth." "Indeed! Its railroad facilities--?" "The C. H. & S. F. is its great trunk line. Three branch lines have their centre there--just built. Two roads are surveyed to shorten the distance to Chicago and San Francisco respectively."