TIBERIUS SMITH
would stand over me bawling, 'Copy! Copy! Look alive, Billy! You've only two minutes!'
"Then he'd turn to the clutter of women folks and declare, 'Mrs. Whitten, you must remove your offspring from the press-room. Children are out of place in a great newspaper office.' And it all seemed real, too. It didn't strike me as funny. I was sincerely provoked because the kids were swarming over the shop.
"I shall always remember the style of him when he'd dash out with his bulletins. Frowning heavily, eyes glittering with energy, he'd slap up a wireless to the effect that General Longstreet was dead. Then he'd walk pertly back to the editorial room, look over my shoulder, and read in my description that General Longstreet was beating a masterly retreat. Out he'd dash again and correct the first bulletin to read 'General Longstreet Is Not Dead.' And all the while he'd be humming some catchy lilt from a last season's chorus.
"Whenever we issued an extra we had the youngsters run about the Hollow shouting, 'Extry! Extry! North 'n' South in a death grapple! All about th' big battle. Seventeen hundred kilt!' And Tib would stand beaming in the doorway and murmur, 'Ah, but it's heartsome. If we only had some embalmed beef and a rip-snorting scandal! But it 'll come. Patience, my boy, until we run out of
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