A Private Chivalry

IT was yet early in the evening when Brant climbed the stairs of the Plainsman building to keep his appointment with Forsyth. The presses were roaring in the basement, but on the top floor the reporters' rooms were untenanted, and the telegraph editor, writing furiously under the sheen of the droplight in his noisy den, was the only member of the staff on duty. When Brant's form darkened his doorway, the man of specials snapped his key and looked up.

"Forsyth's gone down to supper," he said. "Told me to tell you to make yourself at home till he came back."