Day
by day they published its progress "upon the authority of a high
official" who never existed, announcing that "behind each one of
the grave-robbers stood a detective with uplifted hand" ready to
arrest him when the word was given. It was truly the dawn of yellow
journalism. With such extraordinary circumstantiality were the
accounts given that for once my office wavered in its faith in Ensign
and me. Amos Ensign was my partner at the time, a fine fellow and
a good reporter. If we turned out to be wrong, we were given to
understand our careers on the _Tribune_ would be at an end. I slept
little or none during that month of intense work and excitement,
but spent my days as my nights sifting every scrap of evidence.
There was nothing to justify the stories, and we maintained in our
paper that they were lies. Mr. Shanks himself left the city desk
and came up to work with us. His head, too, would fall, we heard,
if his faith in the police office had been misplaced. The bubble
burst at last, and, as we expected, there was nothing in it. The
_Tribune_ was justified.
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