Chapter 4

Pain eyes! A voice boomed from down the hallway, making the lanky man jump in his seat.

Jack Peters was behind a desk that seemed two sizes too small for him in a cramped office filled with filing cabinets.

It was just the sort of palatial surroundings you might expect if you happen to be the star reporter for the Toronto Chronicle, which Jack Peters was.

Jack happened to be leaning back in his chair about to enjoy a cup of lukewarm, stale coffee, freshened up ever so slightly with an equal part of bourbon.

He called it the Newsman's Good Night, and he felt no compulsion to hide it

just because Editor Purley was coming. Purley's bark was worse than his bite, though many

remarked that his bark was bad enough to make up for it. Three, two, one, Peters counted under

his breath. The door burst open, and a solid mass of disgruntled newspaper man filled the space.

His teeth grinding in irritation and a copy of the morning chronicle clutched in his paw.

Peters!

Editor Purley repeated, what in the same hill do you think you're playing at?

Good morning, Tim, Peter said, with the calm that comes from long practice of dealing with the storm.

"'Is that the bulldog?'

"'Course it's the bulldog,' Purley grunted, waving the paper in his hand.

"'What else would it be?'

"'You might be working on your origami swans,' Peter said, taking a long pull from his cup.

"'I hear they're all the rage this season.'

"'Don't crack wise, Purley snapped. Would you like to explain what I'm looking at,

Mr. Peters? Jack peered over the rim of his cup. It appears to be our coverage of last night's

dramatic attack by oversized ten soldiers, he said. I know what it is, Purley exploded. Then why did

you? Purley declined to give his ace reporter a chance to finish this comeback. Do you know what is missing from this report, Jack?

...