The City Editor's Conscience
wanted the news, interrupted with a question, snapped out like the crack of a whip:
"Whose steam-yacht was it?"
"The steam-yacht belongs to—the name of the owner of the steam-yacht—why, let's see, er"
"Aw! Run back and find out." Then turning to another man, and forgetting all about the yacht, the city editor said, smiling eagerly, "Well, would she talk?" This was to the reporter who had gone uptown to try to get an interview with the woman who had been a widow for four hours, and whose husband had been important enough to require a column and a half "obit." The obituary itself was already in type, having been written months before the prominent citizen became ill.
The reporter answered Mr. Maguire's question, mournfully. "Nope, wouldn't talk. Still prostrated."
"Too bad," said the city editor, scowling, for it would have been good stuff. "Wait a minute," he added, "take a run down to Wall Street. She has a brother down there some place. If he isn't in his
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