SOCIAL SUICIDE At his box, Woodbury stopped only to huddle into his coat and overcoat and pull his hat down over his eyes.

Then he hurried on toward an exit, but even this slight delay brought the reporters up with him.

They had scented news as the eagle sights prey far below, and then swooped down on him.

He continued his flight shaking off their harrying questions, but they kept up the running fight and at the door one of them reached his side with: "It's Mr.Woodbury of the Westfall Polo Club, son of Mr.
John Woodbury of Anson Place ?" Anthony Woodbury groaned with dismay and clutched the grinning reporter by the arm.
"Come with me!" Prospects of a scoop of a sizable nature brightened the eyes of the reporter.

He followed in all haste, and the other news-gatherers, in obedience to the exacting, unspoken laws of their craft, stood back and followed the flight with grumbling envy.
On Twenty-Sixth Street, a little from the corner of Madison Avenue, stood a big touring car with the chauffeur waiting in the front seat.
There were still some followers from the Garden.
Woodbury jumped into the back seat, drew the reporter after him, and called: "Start ahead, Maclaren--drive anywhere, but get moving." "Now, sir," turning to the reporter as the engine commenced to hum, "what's your name ?" "Bantry." "Bantry?
Glad to know you." He shook hands.
"You know me ?" "Certainly.