Explore "The Yellow Face" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was not to be supposed that this had happened without attracting the Argus eye of the Press. The nightbirds of journalism had been hovering about, seeking their prey of sensational copy. They haunted the police station with a hope that something might turn up -- the hope that every reporter has that sooner or later he may happen on a good thing that has in it the making of some columns of red-hot descriptive matter.
One of them, hungry and lynx-eyed, had seen the body of Nostalgo carried to Shannon Street station. There might have been a paragraph then; there might have been a column. At any rate, the chance was too good to be lost. The reporter was on the best of terms with the police for a square mile or so; indeed, his living more or less depended on the good fellowship of the local authorities. The sergeant had first of all set the ball rolling; the reporter had seen the body; he had no difficulty in recognizing the striking likeness between the dead man and the poster. Younger men would have rushed off at once and made a long paragraph of this, manifolded it, and sent it broadcast along Fleet Street.