The Stolen Story
Woods put his copy down upon the desk. "Here's the rest of it," he said, briskly.
Stone apparently paid no attention.
Woods picked the sheets up again and planked them down directly under Stone's eyes. "That winds her up," he said.
The editor made no sign.
"Good-night," said Woods.
Stone picked up the copy in silence, wondering what to do.
"Good-night, I said, Mr. Stone. I'm going home." He started off.
"Er—oh, say Woods—hold up. We don't want you to go yet."
Woods stopped ten feet away. He turned around slowly. "But I'm nearly dead," he said, smiling, and he looked it. "I'd like to get something to eat and go to bed."
"Wait till I read your copy."
Woods sighed.
Stone thought he saw the tense lines fading out of his countenance. That would never do. "Besides, Woods," he said, "you haven't enough here. You don't seem to realize what a big story this is."
But Woods was realizing that he was
45
