as he
thought of the Boston newsboys, crying his magnificent beat, till all
Washington Street rang with the glory of it. And he could see the
fellows in Mrs. Atkinson's, letting their coffee grow cold as they
devoured the _Banner_, stopping only here and there to call across
to each other: "Good work, Simp., old boy! Great story!"

Then--Simpkins turned the page. Accident--ten killed--bank
robbed--caught--Mrs. Jones gets divorce.... What!

NOTED SCIENTIST SECURES IMPORTANT RIGHTS
DOCTOR ATHELSTONE ARRANGES FOR ROYAL SOCIETY
TO EXPLOIT RECENT DISCOVERIES

Simpkins stuttered around for an exclamation; then looked up weakly.
Instinct started him on the run for the nearest long-distance telephone,
but before he had gone twenty feet he stopped. The paper was long since
off press and distributed. He had no desire to know what Naylor was
saying. He could not even guess. There are heights to which the
imagination cannot aspire.

Then came a faint ray of hope. That was an Associated Press dispatch--a
late one probably. But if it had reached the New York papers in time to
catch the edition, Naylor must have received it soon enough to kill his
story. But even as this hope came it went. The news interest of the
dispatch was largely local. Doubtless it had been sent out only to the
New York papers.

Simpkins forced himself to read the body of the message now, although he
gagged over every line of it:

London, etc. Dr. Alfred W.R. Athelstone, well known in London as the
president of the American branch of the Royal Society of Egyptian
Exploration and Research, arrived here this morning and is stopping
at the Carlton. He announces that the Khedive has been graciously
pleased to grant to his society the sole right to excavate the tombs
recently discovered by one of its agents in the Karnak region. Doctor
Athelstone left home quietly some weeks ago, and held back any
announcement of the discoveries, which promise to be very important,
while the negotiations, now brought to a happy conclusion, were
pending. He sails for New York on the Campania tomorrow.

"Do I go off half-cocked? Am I yellow? Is a pup yellow?" groaned
Simpkins, and he started off aimlessly toward the park, fighting his
Waterloo over again and counting up his losses. That foolish, foolish
letter! Why had he soiled his fingers by opening it! Of course, that
line which loomed so large and fine in his story, that po