Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 40, Number 54, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 March 1908 — THE SCOOP THAT FAILED [ARTICLE]

THE SCOOP THAT FAILED

By Wm. G. Stiegler

Mark Everett was one of those reporters who are born, not made. From his earliest copy-carrying days he had made the public world his own, sttidying Its characters and exploring its sinister ways until Its atmosphere had become his very breath of life. Its monotonous routine never dulfedrjds enthusiasm; its work, however slavish, never found him conscious of fatigue. When he reported “nothing doing” on a story it meant just that. Then, one summer, Mark went away | for his vacation. "Tt was the first time he had ever dene so—just a twoweeks’ jaunt on the lakes” but when he canie back he was changed. He had seen a new world, and somehow the luster of the old seemed dimmed. Former haunts lost their lure, and he would sit for hours at headquarters, with his feet on the press table, and

: dream —dream —dream. I Those cold, blue northern waters; the fragrant freshness of the winds; the green-ribbed shores that glinted In the mist-strained light—how he had enjoyed them all! Such delightful people, too! And she —ah, she was best of all!' Her eyes—how beautiful—deeper and bluer than the lakes themselves! Sometimes they were veiled as with the moisture of tears; once or twicp he had seen them glow with the sunlight of smiles. She had spoken scarcely a dozen words to him, 1 yet the memory of her had lifted womanhood to loftier heights of reverence, clothing even the commonest police court drab with an Inviolability that transformed her from a jest to an object of pity. It had been all too brief —he might never see her again.

Just such a dream It was that the , city editor Interrupted one afternoon about a month after Mark’s return. “Here’s a tip from Detroit on a big story,” he snapped over the telephone. “Morgan, the defaulting bank cashier, is believed to be hiding here. Detectives have found a letter mailed to his relatives from 314 Denman place. Get out on It right away and play it for a big exclusive!” All of Mark’s news facilities leaped to quick responsiveness, and his blood tinged with the love of excitement as he set out upon his quest. And luck was with him, for the proprietress of the boarding house at 314 Denman place was none other than Maude Wicherly, whom he knew as a maker of past police history. “It won’t get you anything to throw I me down on this,” Mark urged significantly, whers she denied having ar.v guest name ! Morgan. Then she I suddenly remembered that a man on ! the third flodr by the name of Stephens | had received letters from Detrcft —he i might be the person sought.

Mark promptly found the door, which, after an Interval of knocking, was cautiously opened by a small, pale man with Iron gray hair. “How do you do, Mr. Morgan?” began Mark, curtly, pushing his way Into the room. The man started back In speechless fright, his face blanching before the reporter’s accusing gaze. “Who are you?” he finally gasped. “I’m a detective, come to take you back to Detroit, so you’d better make a clean breast of the whole business."

Mark advanced a step—then stopped as it paralyzed. He closed his eyes convulsively, but when he opened them the vision was still there —not as in his dreams and memories—yet unmistakably she. A wild fear burned in her widened eyes, as she halted in the doorway of the adjoining room. “Mr. Everett!” she murmured. Then she dropped quickly on her knees beside the old man, who was now sitting with his face buried in his quivering hands. “What is It, papa?” she asked tremulously. That same sense of guilt and shame which he had pictured In the other man’s heart now overwhelmed Mark. “I—l didot know he was your father," he faltered. "Ton told —you see, I thought your name —” He hesitated. Her object helplessness unnerved him. If he could only spare her the humiliation of knowing that he knew. “I was looking for some one else and—and made a mistake,” he continued, in firmer, strangely tender tones. "But this is no place for you. You and your father must leaVe here at once. Let me help you, won’t you?" And the girl wearily lifted two impotent little hands to him.

Before the three passed out into the twilight, Mark stepped close to the Wlcherly woman. “If you want me to forget some things I know,” he whispered, “just forget that these people were ever here.” “What about that Morgan story?” demanded the city editor, anxiously, as Mark lounged slowly up to the desk. “Nothing doing,” he answered, wearily. His gmse was vacant, bat in his heart was the vision of her eyes, as he seen them last—glowing with the sunlight of smiles.