Dale; then his scowl relaxed into a self-sufficient and pleased smile, and he grunted approvingly.
"That's the stuff to put over," he said. "Mabbe you're not much of a reporter, but you can draw. Y're all right, sport—y're all right. Forget what I said to you a while ago."
Jimmie Dale smiled too—deprecatingly. And put the note book in his pocket.
An officer entered the room hurriedly, and, drawing Clayton aside, spoke in an undertone. A triumphant and malicious grin settled on Clayton's features, and he started with a rush for the door.
"Come around to headquarters in two hours, boys," he called as he went out, "and I'll have something more for you."
The room cleared, the reporters tumbling downstairs to make for the nearest telephones to get their "copy" into their respective offices.
On the street, a few doors up from the house where they were free from the crowd, Carruthers halted Jimmie Dale.
"Jimmie," he said reproachfully, "you certainly made a snark of us both. There wasn't any need to play the 'cub' so egregiously. However, I'll forgive you for the sake of the sketch—hand it over, Jimmie; I'm going to reproduce it in the first edition."
"It wasn't drawn for reproduction, Carruthers—at least, not yet," said Jimmie Dale quietly.
Carruthers stared at him. "Eh?" he asked blankly.
"I've taken a dislike to Clayton," said Jimmie Dale whimsically. "He's too patently after free advertising, and I'm not going to help along his boost. You can't have it, old man, so let's think about something else. What'll they do with that bit of paper that's on the poor devil's forehead up there, for instance."
"Say," said Carruthers, "does it strike you that you're acting queer? You haven't been drinking, have you, Jimmie?"
"What'll they do with it?" persisted Jimmie Dale.
"Well," said Carruthers, smiling a little tolerantly,
