"I don't believe it! I won't! I can't! How the devil can a whole bunch of perfect Apollos disappear that way? There are not four such men in this State, anyway--outside of fiction and the stage----" "I'm only reading you the official----" Mr. Trinkle gulped; the chewing muscles worked in his cheeks, then calmness came, and his low and anxiously lined brow cleared. "All right," he said. "Show me, that's all I ask. Go ahead and find just one of these disappearing Apollos. That's all I ask." He shook an inky finger at them impressively, timing its wagging to his parting admonition: "We want two things, do you understand? We want a story, and we want to print it before any other paper. Never mind reporting progress and the natural scenery; never mind telegraphing the condition of the local colour or the dialect of northern New York, or your adventures with nature, or how you went up against big game, or any other kind of game. I don't want to hear from you until you've got something to say. All you're to do is to prowl and mouse and slink and lurk and hunt and snoop and explore those woods until you find one or more of these Adonises; and then get the story to us by chain-lightning, if," he added indifferently, "it breaks both your silly necks to do it." They passed out with calm dignity, saying "Good-bye, sir," in haughtily modulated voices. As they closed the door they heard him grunt a parting injury. "What an animal!" observed Sayre. "If it wasn't for the glory of being on the _N. Y. Star_----" "Sure," said Langdon, "it's a great paper; besides, we've got to--if we want to remain next to Uncle Augustus." It _was_ a great newspaper; for ethical authority its editorials might be compared only to the _Herald's_; for disinterested principle the _Sun_ alone could compare with it; it had all the lively enterprise and virile, restless energy of the _Tribune_; all the gay, inconsequent, and frothy sparkle of the _Evening Post_; all the risky popularity of the _Outlook_. It was a very, very great New York daily. What on earth has become of it! [Illustration] [Illustration] II LANGDON, very greasy with fly ointment, very sleepy from a mosquitoful night, squatted cross-legged by the camp fire, nodding drowsily. Sayre fought off mosquitoes with one grimy hand; with the other he turned flapjacks on the blade of his hunting-knife. All around them lay the desolate Adirondack wilderness. The wire fence of a game preserve obstructed their advance. It was almost three-quarters of a mile to the nearest hotel. Here and there in the forest immense boulders reared their prehistoric bulk. Many bore the inscription: "Votes for Women!" "I tell you I _did_ see her," repeated Sayre, setting the coffee-pot on the ashes and inspecting the frying pork.