When Channing turned in under the fruit-shed on the night of July 2d,
there was but one press-boat remaining in the harbor. That was the
Consolidated Press boat, and Keating himself was on the wharf,
signalling for his dingy. Channing sprang to his feet and ran toward
him, calling him by name. The thought that he must for another day
remain so near the march of great events and yet not see and feel
them for himself, was intolerable. He felt if it would pay his
passage to the coast of Cuba, there was no sacrifice to which he
would not stoop. Keating watched him approach, but without sign of
recognition. His eyes were heavy and bloodshot.
"Keating," Channing begged, as he halted, panting, "won't you take me
with you? I'll not be in the way, and I'll stoke or wait on table, or
anything you want, if you'll only take me."
Keating's eyes opened and closed, sleepily. He removed an unlit cigar
from his mouth and shook the wet end of it at Channing, as though it
were an accusing finger.
"I know your game," he murmured, thickly. "You haven't got a boat and
you want to steal a ride on mine--for your paper. You can't do it,
you see, you can't do it.
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