It was not instinct that taught him to begin the article with a brief statement of all the principal facts. He had learned that way by reading the Transport carefully. Then he went on with an account of Mrs. Thornton’s relationship to the governor, her illness and relapse, the governor’s arrival in Russellville, the fright of the horses, the accident, and the extent of the governor’s injuries. After these things came an interview with the doctors and the private secretary and a copy of the statement that one of the doctors had written for him. Last of all was a talk with the driver, in which that well-frightened person told in his own way how and why the horses ran away. “Don’t hurry yourself,” the night city editor called over to Dick, seeing how rapidly he was moving the pencil. “Plenty of time. You’ve nearly forty minutes yet.” When Dick looked up to answer, a cold chill ran down his spine. The editor with the spectacles was at work on his early copy with a blue pencil, marking out whole paragraphs, killing lines and parts of lines, transposing sentences, inserting new words, making changes here, there, and everywhere. He had never seen copy with so many blue lines. “A nice job I’ve made of it,” he said to himself. “I guess they’ll not want any more of my copy in the Transport office.” But the next minute he saw that the young editor was doing precisely the same thing with the copy he was reading, and that consoled him. Long before 1.50 came, Dick’s copy had all been edited and sent up to the printers. Both the editors seemed to have forgotten him, and he was left to amuse himself with the loose newspapers and directories and traveler’s guides that were scattered about. The older editor was constantly going out of the room and coming back, and the younger was busy with copy that was laid upon his desk every few minutes: “There is later news for you,” said the editor with the glasses, as he came in with a handful of proofs and handed Dick an open telegram. The dispatch was dated “Russellville, 12.45, via Branchport, 1.20 A.M.”; and the date line made Dick open his eyes. “Governor Wright still unconscious,” it said. “Slight fracture of skull. Physicians give little hope of his recovery. Good night. Simmons.” “Why!” Dick exclaimed; “how did you get that, sir?” “Newspapers have long arms, Mr. Sumner,” the editor replied with a smile; and the next minute he was busy with his proofs. Dick understood now why the Transport’s editors had been so willing to accept news from a stranger. They had treated his news exactly as though they were sure of its truth, even to putting it in type, to be ready if it proved genuine. But without confirmation they would not have published it, except perhaps as a rumor. Then in some unknown way they had managed to get one of their own men to Russellville, and his telegram had removed all doubts and added later news. The skilful way it was managed filled him with admiration.