Any old thing, if they didn't nab him and put him
in Bloomingdale before he could get away.... He made for the street
again. He wouldn't look at the _Banner_. What malignant little
devils the types were when they shouted your sins, not another fellow's,
from the front page, or whispered them in a stage aside from some little
paragraph in an obscure corner of the paper--a corner that the whole
world looked into. Hell, he'd get out of the filthy business! Think of
the light and frolicsome way in which he'd written up domestic scandals,
the entertaining specials he'd turned out on unfaithful husbands, the
snappy columns on unhappy wives, careless of the cost of his sensation
in blood and tears! And now they'd write him up--Naylor would attend to
that editorial himself, and do it in his most virtuous style--and brand
him as a fakir, a liar, and a yellow dog.
Simpkins was back at the news-stand again and there were the Boston
papers. He snatched a _Banner_ from the top of the pile. No, he
must have the wrong paper. He tore through it from front to back and
then to front again, his heart bounding with joy. There was not a line
of his story in it. They had received that Associated Press dispatch,
after all. Yes, there it was, but oh, how differently it looked! It
spelt damnation an hour ago, it meant salvation now.
Pages:
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68