Far off in the prairies, over ragged mountains, through black tunnels, the silver gray wires hum from pole to pole, as they streak their messages across the country. Under great lakes of cold water, across rivers, and rolling on the bottom of black oceans, the dirty, slimy cables tremble with the news they carry to foreign lands. The air is alive with wave lengths, criss-crossed a thousand-fold.

A crowd on a windy street jams itself around a little shop-door above which a loudspeaker blats out its staccato, excited sentences. A roaring mob in a smoky arena stands up on its feet howling again and again. The grizzly farmer puffs faster on his pipe, his wife's knitting becomes jerky and distracted as they loan nearer their radio. A group of elderly gentlemen silently draw up their leather chairs.

Throughout the country typewriters, pounding at top speed, translate buzzing dots and dashes into blazing headlines, panting reporters hurl tons of paper on city editors' desks, whining presses reel off miles of extras onto the streets. Maine must know how Utah went, New Mexico must tell Virginia. America is crying for news. It is Election Night!