* * * * * Jimmy was at his office at the customary hour the next morning. He hadn’t slept all night and he was dog-tired, but his soul was filled with satisfaction. His ruse had worked. Not a single paper had carried a line about the fracas. He had taxied over to Manhattan and had kept vigil along Park Row until the final editions appeared. Then he had chartered a touring car and had taken a long ride along the Long Island roads until it was time for him to report for duty. He found McClintock on the job already. The manager was in a jubilant mood. “Well,” remarked the latter cordially, “you stood the test, all right. I’ve got to give you credit. I didn’t think you’d get away with it, to tell you the gospel truth. Pretty decent bunch after all, I guess. Did any of ’em put up much of an argument?” “Any of who?” inquired Jimmy. “Why the city editors, of course. You saw ’em all personally, didn’t you?” Jimmy smiled a little guiltily, coughed nervously and then laughed quietly. “I might as well confess, Mr. McClintock,” he said finally. “I didn’t see any of ’em. I tried out a new scheme and it worked like a little old Liberty motor. I figured that the story was altogether too good to keep out by any personal visit and I was afraid, anyway, that if any of the papers hadn’t been tipped off my going in with an argument would start ’em out hot-foot after the yarn. So I wrote it and sent it out myself.” “You sent it out yourself!” gasped McClintock. “I don’t get you. Slip me a blueprint.” “I took a big chance and I got away with it,” replied Jimmy. “I knew that there isn’t a chance any more of anything that a press agent writes gettin’ into the news columns of a New York paper. They’ve been shy on that kind of stuff for a great many years. So I said to myself that if I wrote out this yarn like as if I was some kind of a rank amateur, dressin’ it up with a lot of flossy adjectives and makin’ it read so that it sounded like a foolish pipe-dream they’d size it up as pure fake and throw it in the little old waste-basket. Then if any reporter or anyone else _did_ shoot in a tip on the story they’d figure out someone had been tryin’ to bunk _him_ too, and would pass it up. I made it good and strong, and it looks like they fell for it hook, line and sinker. And say, I know somethin’ I never knew before. If I ever lose out in this game I can get a job writin’ a series for the Boy’s Nickle Library.” McClintock patted him affectionately on the back. “All I’ve got to say, Jimmy,” he remarked enthusiastically, “is that you’re a great little press agent.” “I’m a great little sup-press agent, you mean,” responded the other with a grin. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter Twelve