the real
newspaper man. They die soon, and that is why there are no good, old
reporters. Elias M. Pierce turned upon him like a ponderous machine of
vengeance.

"What have you to say for yourself?" he demanded.

Up under Denton's fair skin ran a flush of pink. "Who are you?" he
blurted.

"You are speaking to Mr. Elias M. Pierce," said Douglas hastily.

Six weeks before, young Denton would perhaps have moderated his attitude
in the interests of his job. But now through the sensitive organism of
the newspaper office had passed the new vigor; the feeling of
independence and of the higher responsibility to the facts of the news
only. The men believed that they would be upheld within their own rights
and those of the paper. Harrington Surtaine's standards had been not
only absorbed: they had been magnified and clarified by minds more
expert than his own. Subconsciously, Denton felt that his employer was
back of him, must be back of him in any question of professional honor.

"What I've got to say, I've said in writing."

"Show it to me." The insolence of the command was quite unconscious.

The reporter turned to Hal.

"Mr. Denton," said Hal, "did Miss Pierce explain why she didn't return
after running the nurse down?"

"She said she was in a hurry: that she had a train to catch."

"Did you ask her if she was exceeding the speed limit?"

"She was not," interjected Elias M. Pierce.

"She said she didn't know; that nobody ever paid any attention to speed
laws."

"What about her license?"

"I asked her and she said it was none of my business."

"Quite right," approved Mr. Pierce curtly.

"Tell the desk to run the interview _verbatim_, under a separate head.
Will the nurse die?"

Mr. Pierce snorted contemptuously. "Die! She's hardly hurt."

"Dislocated shoulder, two ribs broken, and scalp wounds. She'll get
well," said the reporter.

"Now, see here, Surtaine," said Douglas smoothly, "be reasonable. It
won't do the 'Clarion' any good to print a lot of yellow sensationalism
about this. There are half a dozen witnesses who say it was the nurse's
fault."

"We have evidence on the other side."

"From whom?"

"Max Veltman, of our composing-room."

"Veltman? Veltman?" repeated Elias M. Pierce, who possessed a wonderful
memory for men and events. "He's that anarchist fellow. Hates every man
with a dollar. Stirred up the labor troubles two years ago. I told my
men to smash his head if they ever caught him wi