"
The old man climbed into the sleigh, took the reins from the
liveryman and started the horse from the livery yard.
Two weeks ago--on Monday, the twenty-seventh of the past October--the
telephone-bell rang sharply in our newspaper-office a few moments
before the paper went to press. Now, the telephone-bell often rings
in our newspaper-office a few moments before going to press. The
confusion on this particular Monday afternoon, however, resulted from
Albany calling on the long-distance. Albany--meaning the nearest
office of the international press-association of which our paper is
a member--called just so, out of a clear sky, on the day McKinley
was assassinated, on the day the _Titanic_ foundered and on the day
Austria declared war on Serbia.
The connection was made, and over the wire came the voice of young
Stewart, crisp as lettuce.
"Special dispatch ... Wyndgate, Vermont, October 27th ... Ready?"
The editor of our paper answered in the affirmative. The rest of us
grouped anxiously around his chair. Stewart proceeded:
"'Hapwell Ruggam, serving a life-sentence for the murder of Deputy
Sheriff Martin Wiley at a Lost Nation kitchen-dance two years ago,
killed Jacob Lambwell, his guard, and escaped from prison at noon
to-day.
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