the road to where a group of men was standing not far
from the stable doors. They moved about a bit when the roars came, but
none of them ran, and I noticed some of them had pistols in their hands,
and some heavy crowbars, and other weapons. Evidently, I judged, they
were men connected with the circus, and I joined the group and
explained my mission.

"Well, that's right enough," said one of them. "You've got a grand
newspaper story this time. Old Yellow Hair's in there, sure pop! And,
what's more, I don't see how we're ever going to get him out again."

"The horse must be stiff by now," said another. "He was mauled half to
death an hour ago."

"It'd be a shame to have to shoot him," added a third, meaning the lion.
"He's the best animal in the whole circus; but he is awful savage."

"That's a fact," chimed in a fourth. "There's no flies on old Yellow
Hair."

Some one touched me on the arm and introduced himself as a reporter from
the _Evening Grin_--a fellow-worker in distress. He said he didn't like
the job at all. He wanted us to go off and concoct a "fake story." But I
wouldn't agree to this, and it fell through; for unless all the evening
papers conspire to write the same story there's always trouble at the
office when the reporters get back.

Other reporters kept joining the group, and in twenty minutes from the
time of my arrival on the scene there must have been a good dozen of us.
Every paper in town was represented. It was a first-class news story,
and the men who were paid by space were already working hard to improve
its value by getting new details, such as the animal's history and
pedigree, names of previous victims, human or otherwise, the
description and family history of its favourite keeper, and every other
imaginable detail under the sun.

"There's an empty loft above the stable," said one of the circus men,
pointing to a smaller door on the storey above; and before ten minutes
had passed some one arrived with a ladder, and the string of unwilling
reporters was soon seen climbing up the rungs and disappearing like rats
into a hole through the door of the loft. We drew lots for places, and I
came fifth.

Before going up, however, I had got a messenger-boy stationed in the
street below to catch my "copy" and hurry off with it to the _Evening
Smile_ as soon as I could compose the wonderful story and throw it down
to him. The reporter on an evening paper in New York has to write his
"stuff," as