Nick Jennings, night city editor of the Baltimore Bulletin, stifled a yawn, stretched his arms, stood up and lounged over to the copy desk. He was utterly unlike the city editor of fiction. He was a short, stocky person with a round and jovial face and there wasn’t a trace of the fabulous steely glint in his grey eyes.

“Not a line of stuff worth sending up,” he observed to Tom North, the head copy-reader. “Unless something breaks the local end of the old sheet tomorrow is going to be about as interesting as a seed catalog. I’ve marked Milligan’s story on the food inspection scandal for a two column head, but it’s pretty dead stuff. Got an idea?”

Tom North shook his head.

“I thought for a minute there might be a feature in that North Side Woman’s Club resolution protesting against the psycho-analysis movement,” he said, “but I didn’t suggest it to you because that Arline Dupont Maxwell introduced it. That dame can cook up more schemes to get her name on the front page than any three prima donnas I know of. There isn’t anything else that’s worth wasting good ink on.”

The city editor yawned again and looked at the clock. It was after ten.

“It’s tough turkey,” he rejoined. “I’ll bet you there was more news stirring out in Twisted Twig, Oregon, today than in this burg.”

An office boy touched him on the arm and handed him a card. He looked at it, hesitated for a second or two and then remarked:

“I’ll take a look at that bird. Send him in.”

He turned to his co-worker again.

“Zip goes another resolution,” he said with a half-laugh. “I’m going to see a press agent. I’ll take any kind of a chance on a night like this. Persistent gink. Sent in his card an hour ago and I turned him down flat. Now he sends it in again marked ‘absolutely imperative I see you—great story with a local angle.’”

He had just settled himself again at his desk when Jimmy Martin swung through the city room and greeted him with an expansive smile.

“Well, Mr. Martin?” grunted Jennings interrogatively as he bent over a page of typewritten copy on his desk in simulation of great pre-occupation.

“Mr. Jennings,” began Jimmy eagerly, “I’ve got a great story with a local angle, a story that’ll stir this little old town up considerable and then some.”

“Uh, uh,” said the city editor, never looking up.

There wasn’t the slightest trace of interest in Jennings’ attitude and Jimmy felt his own enthusiasm flagging for just a moment. Cold-blooded fish, these city editors, he said to himself, always afraid someone is going to put one over on them.

“You see, Mr. Jennings,” he resumed, “I’m with Meyerfields’ Frolics. We play the Lyric next week and——

“I saw your card,” snapped Jennings. “What’s the finale?”

“Well, I just heard tonight that the Baltimore Automobile Club is going to pull off a little private stunt next Sunday—sort of under cover. Someone slipped me a hot tip. I made the chairman of the committee in charge cough up. A bunch of the prominent members are going to pick up the girls of our show in a flock of cars over at Annapolis Junction and bring ’em into town. It’s a cooperative stunt they’re pulling off with the Washington club. The fellows from the capital are going to bring ’em as far as the Junction and——”

“Nothing doing,” broke in the city editor.

“But it isn’t a fake,” persisted Jimmy eagerly, “it’s dead on the level. I’ve got the names of the reception committee with me. The chairman had his stenographer write them out for me.”

He shoved his typewritten list across the desk directly under Jennings’ hand. The latter looked up in annoyance, started to push it back, caught the name on the letterhead and gave the paper a cursory glance. He looked up again.

“Been looking through Seymour’s copy of the Blue Book, eh?” he remarked testily. “Where’d you dig up this letter head?”

“I’m telling you that Mr. McDonald had his stenographer write it out for me. I don’t ask you to believe me, Mr. Jennings. Mr. McDonald said you could call him up before eleven. I’m not trying to steer you wrong.”

The fierce intensity of Jimmy’s voice and manner caused the skeptical Jennings to bore him with a searching look. His eyes dropped to the paper again. He skimmed through the names. What if by some queer quirk the story was really true? Donald McDonald, Horace Chadwick, Col. Roundtree and all those others joy-riding with chorus girls under the official auspices of the Automobile Club—why, the thing would rock the town like an earthquake! And the fellow had said McDonald would verify the story. Why had he taken a chance and said that if it wasn’t true? It was an easy matter to reach McDonald. He looked up warily.

“Been spilling this story any place else?”, he asked.

“Not a syllable. It’s exclusive for you if you promise to use it. Of course, if you don’t I’ll have to drop in over at the Gazette office. It’s too good to waste.”

Jennings seemed to look through Jimmy for a full half minute while he pondered deeply.

“Young man,” he said finally. “I’m going to investigate this little yarn, but let me tell you that if it turns out to be a fake, I’ll have you deported as an undesirable alien.”

He turned his gaze towards the little group of reporters on the other side of the room grinding out copy to the tune played by a dozen clicking typewriters.

“Crandall,” he called out, “I’ve got a story for you to look up.”

Jimmy effaced himself as the Bulletin’s star feature writer jumped up briskly in response to his chief’s summons.