telegram again, mumbled
"It's a fake! Great guns!" and rushed from the room.

The messenger boy looked after the editor's retreating form with a
knowing wink, as if the whole thing had been a special job put up by
himself, whistled "Annie Rooney," took up a tattered copy of "Famous
Quotations," laid it down again with an expression of mingled respect
and scepticism, characteristic of his kind, and then swaggered out of
the editorial sanctum.

"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 d