rries to the telegraph office. He buys a
half-dozen tales of the sea. He finds a shipwreck to suit his needs.
He describes in a column the happy scenes in the cabin before the
calamity is feared. He depicts the stern face of the commander as he
stands, pistols in hand, to keep the passengers from the boats. The
full moon rises. The wind abates. A raft is constructed at a cost of
one column and a half of out and out plagiarism. Corkey, Lockwin and
forty wood-choppers are saved on the raft. The captain goes down on
his ship, refusing to live longer.

"You bet!" comments the laboring, perspiring Corkey. Corkey is a short
man, short in speech. This "full account" is a grievous
responsibility, for marine reporters are taught to "boil it down."

The raft goes to pieces in mid-sea, and the survivors take to the yawl.

Then Corkey returns and interpolates a column death scene on the raft.

"Too bad there wasn't no starving," he laments. "I was hungry enough
to starve."

The boat comes ashore in the breakers, and as the result of an
all-night's struggle with the muse of conventionality Corkey has seven
columns of double-leaded copy.

Meantime the telegraph operator at Wiarton at Corkey's order has been
sending the Covode Investigation from an antique copy of the
"Congressional Globe." There is an office rule that dispatches must
take their turn on the file. The four interviewers have filed their
accounts and their accounts will be sent after the Covode
Investigation. When Corkey's dispatch is ready he joins it to a sheet
of the Covode Investigation, and therefore the operator has been busy
on one dispatch all the time.

The night editor of Corkey's paper begins getting the Covode
Investigation from Wiarton. He enjoins the foreman to start more
type-setters. Reprint copy is freely set all night, and at dawn the
real stuff begins to arrive.

"Appalling Calamity. Loss of 115 Lives on Georgian Bay. Only Two
Saved. Graphic and Exciting Account of Our Special Survivor.
Unparalleled Feat in Journalism."

Such are some of the many headings. They fill a column.

The night editor, the telegraph editors, the proof-readers, the
type-setters, the ring-men, the make-ups, the press-men, are thrilled
to the marrow. The printers can scarcely set their portions, they are
so desirous to read the other takes.

"I didn't know Corkey had it in him," says Slug 75.

"You'd have it in you," answers Slug 10, "if you we