"Run it just as it is," commanded the managing editor." Use it for your introduction and get your story from the flimsy.
And, in your head, cut out Flagg entirely.Call it 'The Red Cross Girl.' And play it up strong with pictures." He turned on Sam and eyed him curiously.
"What's the idea, Ward?" he said."This is a newspaper--not a magazine!"The click of the typewriters was silent, the hectic rush of the pencils had ceased, and the staff, expectant, smiled cynically upon the star reporter.Sam shoved his hands into his trousers pockets and also smiled, but unhappily.
"I know it's not news, Sir," he said; but that's the way Isaw the story--outside on the lawn, the band playing, and the governor and the governor's staff and the clergy burning incense to Flagg; and inside, this girl right on the job--taking care of the sick and wounded.It seemed to me that a million from a man that won't miss a million didn't stack up against what this girl was doing for these sick folks! What Iwanted to say," continued Sam stoutly "was that the moving spirit of the hospital was not in the man who signed the checks, but in these women who do the work--the nurses, like the one I wrote about; the one you called 'The Red Cross Girl.'"Collins, strong through many years of faithful service, backed by the traditions of the profession, snorted scornfully.
"But it's not news!"
"It's not news," said Elliott doubtfully; "but it's the kind of story that made Frank O'Malley famous.It's the kind of story that drives men out of this business into the arms of what Kipling calls 'the illegitimate sister.'"It seldom is granted to a man on the same day to give his whole heart to a girl and to be patted on the back by his managing editor; and it was this combination, and not the drinks he dispensed to the staff in return for its congratulations, that sent Sam home walking on air.He loved his business, he was proud of his business; but never before had it served him so well.It had enabled him to tell the woman he loved, and incidentally a million other people, how deeply he honored her; how clearly he appreciated her power for good.No one would know he meant Sister Anne, save two people--Sister Anne and himself; but for her and for him that was as many as should know.In his story he had used real incidents of the day; he had described her as she passed through the wards of the hospital, cheering and sympathetic;he had told of the little acts of consideration that endeared her to the sick people.
The next morning she would know that it was she of whom he had written; and between the lines she would read that the man who wrote them loved her.So he fell asleep, impatient for the morning.In the hotel at which he lived the REPUBLICwas always placed promptly outside his door; and, after many excursions into the hall, he at last found it.On the front page was his story, "The Red Cross Girl." It had the place of honor--right-hand column; but more conspicuous than the headlines of his own story was one of Redding's, photographs.
It was the one he had taken of Sister Anne when first she had approached them, in her uniform of mercy, advancing across the lawn, walking straight into the focus of the, camera.
There was no mistaking her for any other living woman; but beneath the picture, in bold, staring, uncompromising type, was a strange and grotesque legend.
"Daughter of Millionaire Flagg," it read, "in a New Role, Miss Anita Flagg as The Red Cross Girl."For a long time Sam looked at the picture, and then, folding the paper so that the picture was hidden, he walked to the open window.From below, Broadway sent up a tumultuous greeting--cable cars jangled, taxis hooted; and, on the sidewalks, on their way to work, processions of shop-girls stepped out briskly.It was the street and the city and the life he had found fascinating, but now it jarred and affronted him.A girl he knew had died, had passed out of his life forever--worse than that had never existed; and yet the city went or just as though that made no difference, or just as little difference as it would have made had Sister Anne really lived and really died.
At the same early hour, an hour far too early for the rest of the house party, Anita Flagg and Helen Page, booted and riding-habited, sat alone at the breakfast table, their tea before them; and in the hands of Anita Flagg was the DAILYREPUBLIC.Miss Page had brought the paper to the table and, with affected indignation at the impertinence of the press, had pointed at the front-page photograph; but Miss Flagg was not looking at the photograph, or drinking her tea, or showing in her immediate surroundings any interest whatsoever.Instead, her lovely eyes were fastened with fascination upon the column under the heading "The Red Cross Girl"; and, as she read, the lovely eyes lost all trace of recent slumber, her lovely lips parted breathlessly, and on her lovely cheeks the color flowed and faded and glowed and bloomed.When she had read as far as a paragraph beginning, "When Sister Anne walked between them those who suffered raised their eyes to hers as flowers lift their faces to the rain," she dropped the paper and started for telephone.
"Any man," cried she, to the mutual discomfort of Helen Page and the servants, "who thinks I'm like that mustn't get away!
I'm not like that and I know it; but if he thinks so that's all I want.And maybe I might be like that--if any man would help."She gave her attention to the telephone and "Information."She demanded to be instantly put into communication with the DAILY REPUBLIC and Mr.Sam Ward.She turned again upon Helen Page.
"I'm tired of being called a good sport," she protested, "by men who aren't half so good sports as I am.I'm tired of being talked to about money--as though I were a stock-broker.
