This, being in itself important news, kept Banneker late at his
writing, and he had told his host not to wait, that he would join him on
the yacht sometime about midnight. So Smith had gone on alone.
The next morning Tommy Burt, lounging into the office from an early
assignment, approached the City Desk with a twinkle far back in his
lively eyes.
"Hear anything of a shoot-fest up in the Bad Lands last night?" he
asked.
"Not yet," replied Mr. Greenough. "They're getting to be everyday
occurrences up there. Is it on the police slips, Mr. Mallory?"
"No. Nothing in that line," answered the assistant, looking over his
assortment.
"Police are probably suppressing it," opined Burt.
"Have you got the story?" queried Mr. Greenough.
"In outline. It isn't really my story."
"Whose is it, then?"
"That's part of it." Tommy Burt leaned against Mallory's desk and
appeared to be revolving some delectable thought in his mind.
"Tommy," said Mallory, "they didn't open that committee meeting you've
been attending with a corkscrew, did they?"
"I'm intoxicated with the chaste beauties of my story, which isn't
mine," returned the dreamily smiling Mr. Burt. "Here it is, boiled down.
Guest on an anchored yacht returning late, sober, through the mist.
Pages:
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322