sank like a stone. There was a struggle for the lifepreservers, the decayed canvas covering of which tore apart like paper, and then a scramble to get overboard. This was the tale that poured in from a dozen sources, distorted with contradictions and impossibilities and the errors and omissions of haste and confusion. Billy Doring kept a hand on each separate strand of the tale, weaving the whole into the fabric of a strong, coherent, dramatic narrative told in terse, sharp English without the gush of fine writing. It was early in the afternoon that a cub reporter called up with the first identifications of the dead. "You might give them to me," said Doring. There were two or three names beginning with the letters A, B, and C, and then the reporter said: "Mrs. William Doring. "Ten-year-old girl, supposed to be her daughter." "How was the woman identified?" asked Billy, quietly. "Letters in a little red morocco satchel she carried," said the reporter. "I hope it's no relation of yours, Mr. Doring?" "That's all right," said Doring's even voice. "Give the rest of the names to Mr. Brill." He knew that red morocco satchel. He saw Brill run to the telephone booths, and then, mechanically, he wrote in the copy his wife's name, and below it: "Lucy Doring, 10 years old." After a minute, he erased this and substituted, "Ten-year-old girl, supposed to be her daughter." A waiting boy reached out for the page, and as he did so he felt a hot drop fall upon the back of his hand. He looked up at Doring, and then his under jaw fell, and he stood, the paper held loosely in his hand, staring; for tears were trickling down the city editor's face. "Go on, sonny," said the city editor, huskily. He drew his sleeve hastily across his eyes. But his voice was clear again when, an instant later, he gave orders to run the list of names in heavy type in a block. Over the office, people were watching Doring furtively. The copy-boy who had seen Billy's tears whispered awesomely to some of his fellows. The sporting editors had got the rumor and were staring at Doring over their neglected work. Some of the pressmen gath ered in a flying group. "His wife and kid," said one. "Jee-rusalem! He's a calm one," ejaculated another. They kept an eye on Doring as they sweated over the machines. The telegraphers shook their heads at the news and stared portentously. The rumor invaded "The Desk" itself, and the copy-readers called out their orders in gentler tones. One of them whispered the report to Douglas, who sat now in a great litter of proofs and crumpled papers. Douglas glanced over at Doring. The little man wore his quaint smile as he worked, but his face was very pale. "Doring!" shouted Douglas. "I'm sorry, Doring," he spluttered, "con-damnfounded sorry! I guess you wanter go-up there." He waved a hand vaguely toward the window. "Go ahead. We'll get the paper out." "Thanks," said Doring, fixing Douglas with his smile. "I'll see this edition through. Then, if you can spare me, I think I'll go out and buy a pistol and shoot all the directors of the steamboat company, and the captain, and the government inspectors who passed those lifebelts and hose-and then possibly myself. But I'll see this edition through all right first." Again his telephone called him. "This is the city desk," he said, in his tone of mild inquiry. "This is Anna," said a woman's voice. "Anna! Lucy!" the words trembled from his lips. "We're all right. You remember Lucy's swimming lessons in public school? Well, they saved us. We had to jump overboard, and I gave out, and the kid held me up until some men in a rowboat picked us out. The only thing we lost was my red morocco satchel. I gave it to the mother of a little girl Lucy had been playing with to hold while I tried to get some life preservers, and I never saw her again. I should have called you up before, Billy-I know how anxious you must have been-but I gave out completely for a while. But we're all right now-clothes dry and everything." "Thank God!" said Doring. His eye peered humorously over at Merrihew, who was nervously puffing great clouds from his bulldog pipe. "That's the wife-safe," he said. "I guess we'll for get that roar about teaching fads and frills in the schools." Sorting thoughtfully through the proofs on his desk, he drew out the list of identified dead and drew his blue pencil through two lines of this-his wife's name and the "Ten-year-old girl, supposed to be her daughter." "Hold the forms for this correction," he said, handing the slip to the make-up man, who was shuffling past. "I'd hold them a year for that, Billy," cried the makeup man, as he glanced at the bit of proof. "They're safe, then?" "Safe!" said Doring. All the office was watching and listening to this conversation. With the important edition only a few minutes away, the whole human machinery of the place had miraculously stopped. Even the managing editor stood silent and motionless in the doorway of his den. And as the word "safe" framed itself on Billy's lips, a murmur spread from the copy-desks out to where the farthest pressman in the dim interior of the room stood, his idle hands on his hips, observing. The managing editor's sharp lips softened to a smile. He waved his arms aloft in a gesture that was meant to convey to Billy and to the world his congratulations, and as he did so the murmur grew to a hoarse cheer that shoo the type in the cases. Then suddenly Doring laid his head upon the shabby oak table and gave way to a paroxysm of sobs and hysterical laughter. Lincoln's Rules for Living Do not worry, eat three square meals a day, say your prayers, be courteous to your creditors, keep your digestion good, steer clear of biliousness, exercise, go slow and go easy. Maybe there are other things that your special case requires to make you happy, but, my friend, these, I reckon, will give you a good lift.-Abraham Lincoln. There Ain't No West No More There ain't no West no more, Bill; you'd hardly know the land! They've built a dry goods store, Bill, where Peg Leg's used to stand! They've got some real police, Bill-just plain brassbuttoned dubs, That aim to keep the peace, Bill, an' carry polished clubs. The good old days is gone, Bill; they've gone for certain, shore; Here's what you can bet on, Bill: There ain't no West no more! Stay back there in the East, Bill, where folks kin break a law; The good old times is ceased, Bill; the West has come to taw. Why, Two-Tooth Jones is dead, Bill-he jest shot up a town An' got cracked on the head, Bill, by some one name o' Brown, That wore a silver star, Bill, an' never rode a hoss. Stay right there where you are, Bill-the West is growing moss. The faro game is closed, Bill; the lay-out's done been burned! Who'd ever have supposed, Bill, 'twould be so I'll be durned If they ain't got a rule, Bill, that roulette doesn't go! It's like a Sunday-school, Bill-it ain't the West you know. An' worse than all the rest, Bill-whatever would you think? They'll hang you in the West, Bill, for shootin' of a Chink! There ain't no West no more, Bill-just wipe it off your map. Them cowboy clothes you wore, Bill, the folks here now would rap! They pinch you if you cuss, Bill; they close the barn at night. An' you can't start no fuss, Bill, nor mix up in a fight. The good old days is gone, Bill; they've gone for certain shore; Here's what you can bet on, Bill: There ain't no West no more! Good Night, Dear World BY ANNA D. WALKER. Good night, dear world, now go to sleep, While moon and stars their vigils keep Good night, dear world, let dew soft fall, Like unto ardent lover. Good night, good night! Good night, dear world, soothe at thy breast Good night, good night! Good night, dear world, they nod, the trees, Good night, dear world, within night's fold, Doth come with its great crown of gold, Good night, good night! |