It was the first time Larry had ever been assigned to the municipal building alone. He was familiar with most of the offices and knew some of the officials by sight, as Mr. Newton had frequently taken him around to “learn him the ropes,” as he said. So Larry felt not a little elated, and began to dream of the time when he might have important assignments, such as looking after city matters and politics, matters to which New York papers pay great attention.
Larry went into several offices at the hall, and found there was no news. It was rather a dull day along municipal and political lines, and there were few reporters around the building. Larry knew some of them, who nodded to him in a friendly way, and asked him whether there was “anything new,” a reporter’s manner of inquiring for news.
As Larry had nothing he said so, it being a sort of unwritten law among newspaper men not to beat each other on routine assignments, unless there was some special story they were after.
It was almost closing hour at the hall, and within a few minutes of the time theLeader’slast edition went to press, that Larry entered the anteroom of the City Comptroller’s office. He hardly expected there would be any news, and he knew if there was it was almost too late for that day. However, he was tired, and, as there were comfortable chairs in the office, he resolved to have a few minutes’ rest, while waiting to see the official or the chief clerk to ask if there was anything new.
It was while sitting there, with his chair tilted back against a thin partition, that Larry overheard voices in somewhat loud conversation. At first he paid little attention to the matter. But when one of the voices became quite loud he could not help hearing.
“I tell you I’ve got the whole plan outlined, and we can all make big money by it,” someone remarked. “I know the lay of the land. It’s up in the Bronx.”
At that Larry began to take some notice, as he remembered he and his mother were interested in some Bronx property.
“The deal is going through, then?” asked another man.
“Sure.”
Now Larry had no intention of eavesdropping, and, if he had thought the conversation was of a private nature, he would have moved away. But it seemed the men had nothing to conceal, for they talked loudly. They were probably unaware that a transom over the door of the room where they were, was open.
“What makes you so sure the land will be valuable?” asked another voice.
“Because I know it,” came the answer from the one who had first spoken. “There’s going to be an ordinance introduced in the Common Council soon. Now all we have to do is to buy up all the lots——” What followed was in a low tone, and Larry could not hear. Then the voice went on: “It’s a great game, for it will take our votes to pass the ordinance, see?”
“Won’t there be some danger?” asked someone.
“Not a bit. There’s only one hitch. I’ve been looking the thing up, and I find that the most valuable strip of land in the whole tract is owned by some man up New York State.”
“Who is he?”
“Something like Pexter or Wexter,” was the reply, whereat Larry felt his heart beating strongly. Suppose it should happen to be the land for which his mother held the deed?
“Can we put the deal through?” several asked of the man who was doing the most talking.
“Sure we can,” was the answer. “Alderman——”
“Hush! Not so loud!” cautioned a voice.
“Close that transom,” ordered someone, and then Larry moved away, fearing the men might come out, and find him listening. He wanted to know more of the matter, for he felt sure some underhanded game was afoot.
That afternoon, on the way home, Larry told Mr. Newton of what he had heard.
“I’ll bet there’s some sort of a deal on,” said the older reporter. “Glad you happened to overhear that, Larry. I’ll get busy on the tip, and maybe we can block the game.”
“I’ve got a little trip out of town for you, Larry,” said Mr. Emberg the next morning. “There will not be much work attached to it, unless something unexpected happens.”
“What sort of an assignment is it?” asked Larry.
“The Eighth Ward Democratic Club is going to have an outing to Coney Island,” replied the city editor. “It’s a clam chowder party, and, while it is mainly to give the members of the association a good time, there may be some politics discussed.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about politics,” answered Larry, somewhat doubtful of his ability to cover that kind of an assignment.
“You’ll never learn any younger,” was Mr. Emberg’s rejoinder, as he smiled at Larry. “Get me a good story of what the men do, and I guess you’ll not miss much. There are going to be some games down at the beach, in the afternoon, races and so on, that may make something funny to write about.”
Mr. Emberg gave Larry a ticket to the chowder outing, and told him where to take the boat.
“You’re in luck, kid,” remarked one of the older reporters, as he saw the “cub” start on his assignment.
“How so?” asked Larry.
“Why, there’s nothing to do except enjoy the trip, eat a good dinner, and sit off in the shade in the afternoon. It’s one of the few decent things we fall into in this business.”
“Well, if I can get a good story that’s all I care about,” responded Larry, who had not been a reporter long enough to lose his early enthusiasm. He was always looking for a chance to get a good story, and no less on this occasion when there was not much of an opportunity.
Larry made his way to the dock whence the boat was to leave. He found a crowd of men at the wharf, all of them wearing gaily-colored badges, for the Eighth Ward Democratic Club was one of the most influential and largest political organizations in New York.
At the dock all was hurry and excitement. A band was playing lively airs, and a number of fat men were wiping the perspiration from their brows, for it was August, and a hot day, and they had marched half-way around the ward before coming to the boat.
Scores of men were piling good things to eat on the boat, for political outings seem to be always regarded as hungry affairs. Larry saw a number of other reporters whom he knew slightly, and spoke to them. Soon all the newspaper men formed a crowd among themselves, and found a comfortable place on the boat, where they sat and talked “shop.”
The older reporters discussed politics, and the younger ones conversed about the assignments they had recently covered. For, curiously enough, though a reporter sees much of life of various sorts that might furnish topics of conversation, no sooner do two or more of them get together than they begin discussions of matters connected directly with their work. Perhaps this is so because everything in life concerns reporters, more or less.
Lunch was served on the boat when it was about half-way to the Island, and Larry thought he never had tasted anything so good, for the salt air made him very hungry. Then such a dinner as there was when the grove where the club held its outings was reached.
There was a regular old-fashioned clam chowder and clam-bake in preparation. First came the chowder, which, instead of taking the edges from sharp appetites, seemed only to increase them. Then the members of the club and their friends strolled about, sat under trees, or gathered in little groups to talk, while the clam-bake was being made ready.
Larry thought perhaps he had better go about, and see if he could pick up any political tips. He spoke about it to one of the other reporters, but the latter said:
“There, now, don’t worry about that, Larry. The only time when politics will crop out, if they do at all, is after they’ve had their dinners. That will loosen their tongues, and we may pick up something.”
So Larry decided he might spend some time watching the men prepare the clam-bake.
First they built a big fire of wood in a sort of hollow in the ground. The blaze was so hot it was most uncomfortable to go close to it, but the cook and his assistants did not appear to mind it. They put scores of stones in the blaze, and the cobbles were soon glowing with the heat. Occasionally one would crack, and the pieces flew all about.
“Ever get hit?” asked Larry, of the cook.
“Once or twice, but I’m getting so I can dodge ’em now.”
Just then came another crack, and the cook ducked quickly, as a large piece of stone flew over his head. He laughed, and Larry joined him. When the stones were hot enough the men raked away the charred wood and embers, and then piled the stones up in a round heap. They were so hot that the men had to use long-handled rakes and pitchforks.
On top of the cobbles was thrown a quantity of wet seaweed, which sent up a cloud of vapor. Then the cook and his helpers began piling on top of the steaming weed bushels of clams, scores of lobsters, whole chickens, crabs, potatoes, corn on the cob, and other things. Then the whole mass was covered with more seaweed, and over all a big canvas was spread.
“There, now, it will cook in about an hour,” said the cook, who seemed to have removed considerable anxiety from his mind.
“Don’t you build more fire on it?” asked Larry, who had never been at a clam-bake.
“Not a bit. The hot stones do all the cooking now,” responded the cook.
And so it proved, for in about an hour the canvas was taken off, the weed removed, and there the whole mass of victuals was cooked to a turn. The men gathered around the table, places were found for the reporters, and the feast began. Larry ate so many clams, and so much lobster and chicken, that he feared he would not be able to hold a pencil to take notes, providing anyone was left alive to write about. Everyone seemed to be trying to outdo his neighbor in the amount of food consumed.
But it was a healthful way in which to dine, and no ill effects seemed to follow the clam-bake. An hour’s rest in the shade followed, and then it was announced that the games would be started.
A sack race was the first on the programme, and the contestants, of whom there were eight, allowed themselves to be tied up in bags, which reached to their necks. At the word they started to waddle toward the goal.
There was one very fat man and one thin one who seemed to be doing better than any of the others. They both took little steps inside the bags, and were distancing their competitors.
“Go it, Fatty!” called the stout man’s friends.
“You’ll win, Skinny!” shouted the advocates of the tall, thin one.
The latter began to forge ahead, and, it seemed, would win the race.
“Lie down and roll!” shouted someone to the fat man.
“Dot’s a good ideaness!” answered the fleshy contestant, who spoke with a strong German accent.
He fell upon his knees, and then toppled over on his side on the green grass over which the course was laid. There was a general laugh, most persons thinking the man had fallen, and was out of the race. But not so with the fleshy one. He began rolling over and over, his rotundity and the soft sod preventing him from being hurt. He kept his head away from the ground, and, so rapidly did he revolve that, inside of two minutes he had passed the thin man. The latter in his efforts to come in first took too long steps, his feet got tangled up inside the sack, and he went sprawling on his face.
“I vins!” exclaimed the German, as he rolled over for the last time, and bumped into the goal post.
“You didn’t win fair!” cried the thin man, trying to talk with his mouth filled with grass.
“Shure I dit!” the fleshy one exclaimed. “Vat’s der rules?”
“That’s right, he wins under the rules,” announced the man in charge of the games. “Contestants could walk, run, or roll. Fatty wins and gets the prize.”
“Vot iss dot prize?” asked the German, while some of his friends took him out of the bag.
“This beautiful medal,” replied the man in charge, and he handed the winner a large one made of leather, on which was burned a picture of a donkey. There was a burst of laughter, in which the butt of the joke had to join.
After this came a potato race, in which each contestant had to carry the tubers one at a time, in a spoon, and the one who brought the most to the goal received five dollars. Following there was a wheelbarrow contest, in which the smallest members of the club were obliged to wheel the largest and fattest ones. It was hard on the thin men, but the others appeared to enjoy it.
A swimming race to see who could catch a greased duck caused lots of fun. The men put on bathing suits, and scores of them went into the water.
“Don’t some of you reporters want to join the sport?” asked one of the entertainment committee. Some of the newspaper men did, and said so. Larry resolved to enter, for he was a good swimmer. Soon he had borrowed a suit, and was splashing around with the others. All was in readiness for the contest. The duck was released at the far side of a small cove, the swimmers starting from the opposite shore.
Such shouting, laughing, splashing, and sport as there was! Half the men had no intention of catching the duck, but, instead, took the opportunity of ducking some of their companions under water. Larry had no idea of catching the fowl, since he saw several men try, and lose their grip because of the oil on the duck’s feathers.
“Five dollars to whoever catches the bird!” shouted a man on shore, watching the struggle. At this there was a general rush for the unfortunate fowl. She was caught once or twice, but managed to slip away, leaving a few feathers behind.
“I’m going to catch her,” said Larry to himself. He waited a good opportunity when the duck was in a comparatively free space in the water. Then Larry began swimming slowly toward her. The duck did not see him approaching, and was paddling about. When about ten feet away Larry dived, and began swimming under water. He rose right under the duck, grabbed the fowl by the legs, and held her fast, swimming toward shore with his free arm.
A cheer greeted him as he waded out with the prize.
“There’s your money!” exclaimed the man who offered it, handing Larry a five-dollar gold piece.
Several other reporters gathered about Larry, who stood blushing at the attention he was attracting. He hardly knew whether to accept the money or not. One of his fellow newspaper workers saw his confusion.
“Take it,” he whispered. “It’s all in the game, and you won it fairly. I’ll keep it for you until you get dressed.”
Larry accepted the offer, and gave the money to his friend, who put it in his pocket until the lad had his clothes on once more.
There were a number of other games and sports after this, and then the members of the club, thoroughly tired out with the day’s fun, went aboard the boat for the trip home. There was not much excitement on the way back, and Larry was beginning to fear he might have missed the story.
He thought perhaps there had been politics talked which he had not overheard, and he was worried lest Mr. Emberg would think he had not properly covered the assignment.
Larry ventured to hint at this to some of the other reporters, but they all told him that, contrary to all expectations, there had been no politics worth mentioning discussed on the outing.
“Just make a general story of it,” advised the reporter who had held the money for Larry. “None of us are looking for a beat.”
So Larry made his mind easier. A little later the boat made a stop at a dock to let off several members who had decided to go the rest of the way home by train. The newspaper men, with the exception of Larry, decided, also, to go home on the railroad.
“Better come along,” they said to Larry. “You’ll get no more story.”
“Probably not,” rejoined Larry, “but I’ll stay just the same. The boss told me to keep on the job until it was over, and it isn’t over until the boat ties up at the last dock.”
“You’ll soon get over that nonsense,” said the reporter, with a laugh, as he left the craft. The boat resumed her way up the river, and Larry, who was quite tired out, was beginning to think he was to have his trouble for his pains in explicitly following instructions. There seemed no more chance for news, since most of the men were resting comfortably in chairs, or lounging half-asleep in the cabins. Even the band was too tired to play.
It was getting dusk, and Larry was wondering what time he would get home. He walked about the upper deck, and gazed off across the water.
Suddenly there sounded a commotion on the deck below him. Then came a splash in the water.
“Man overboard! Man overboard!” sung out several deckhands. “Lower a boat!”
At once the steamer was the scene of confusion. Men were running to and fro, a hurried jangle of bells came from the engine room, and the craft slackened speed.
“Turn on the searchlight!” cried someone, and soon the beams from the big glaring beacon were gleaming on the dark waters aft the boat.
“There he is, I see his head!” cried someone at the stern, casting a life buoy toward the figure of the man who had toppled over the rail.
“Who is it?”
“Who threw him in?”
“How did it happen?”
“Is he dead?”
These were a few of the confused cries that came from all parts of the steamer. But while most of the excursionists were greatly excited, the members of the crew of the craft remained calm. They quickly lowered a boat, and, by the aid of the glare from the searchlight, were able to pick out the swimming figure of the man. They headed the boat toward him, and in a little while hauled him into the small skiff. Then they rowed back to the steamer, the rail of which was crowded with anxious friends of the unlucky one.
“Did you save him?” they cried, for they could not see whether their friend was in the boat or not.
“Sure!” cried several of the crew, and one added: “He’s all the better for a little salt water!”
“This will make a good part of the story,” thought Larry, as he watched the craft drawing nearer. “I guess the other fellows will wish they had stayed aboard.”
When the skiff reached the steamer, and the crew, and rescued one, had been taken aboard, there were scores of demands to know how it all happened.
“I’ll tell you,” said the victim of the accident. “I was sleeping on two camp-stools close to the rail. I got to dreaming I was making a political speech, and I was walking up and down the platform telling the audience what a fine party the Democratic one is.
“I must have walked a little too far, for, the first thing I knew, I had stepped over the edge of the platform, and the next thing I knew I was falling. I woke up in the river, and struck out. That’s about all.”
“Lucky for you the searchlight was working,” remarked one of the man’s friends, “or you might have been on the bottom of the river by now.”
“Well, you see,” said the man, with a smile, as he wiped the water from his eyes. “I ate so many clams, lobsters, and crabs to-day that when I got down there the river thought I was a sort of a fish, and so it didn’t drown me.”
Larry made inquiry, and found out the man’s name. He made notes of the occurrence, and, the next morning, on reaching the office, wrote up a lively story of the happening.
He said nothing to Mr. Emberg about being the only reporter on the boat when the thing happened. But that afternoon, when all the other papers came out, and, like the morning issues, had no account of the rescue of the man, who was a prominent politician, the city editor said:
“I hope you weren’t ‘faking’ that story, Larry?” and Mr. Emberg looked serious, for he did not want any of the reporters to “fake,” or write untrue accounts of matters.
“No, sir, it actually happened,” said Larry, and he related how he came to be the only newspaper reporter at the scene. A little later Mr. Newton came in.
“Say,” he asked, “did we have a story of a man falling overboard on that Democratic outing? I just heard of it on the street as I was coming in.”
He had not been in that morning, being out of town on a story.
“Oh, Larry was on hand as usual,” replied the city editor, for by this time he was convinced that Larry’s account was true. “He has given us another beat.”
And so it proved, for theLeaderwas the only paper in New York that had an account of the incident, and nearly all of the later editions of the afternoon sheets had to use the story, copying it from theLeader.
“It was a good beat, and a good story of the outing besides,” said Mr. Emberg, shortly after the last edition had gone to press, for he liked the half-humorous manner in which Larry had written about the sack race and the other sports in which the members of the club had indulged. “You are doing fine work,” he added, at which praise Larry felt much gratified.
Things were slacking up a bit in the office, now that the paper had gone to press for the day, when one of the reporters who was looking over the front page suddenly cried out:
“Here’s a bad mistake in that account of the meeting of the County Republican Committee last night. It says Jones voted for Smith for chairman, and that’s wrong. I was there. The compositor must have made a mistake. It ought to be corrected, or it will make trouble.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late,” remarked Mr. Emberg, as he grabbed a paper to see the error. “The presses are running, and part of the last edition is off. The only way we can do is to have them smash Jones’s name, and blur it so no one can tell what it is. That’s what I’ll do.”
He tore part of the page off, marked out the name to be smashed, and called to Larry, there being no copy boys in the room then:
“Here, Larry, go down in the pressroom, and tell Dunn, the foreman, to smash that name.”
Though Larry had been on the paper some time he had never been in the pressroom. Nor did he know what the operation of smashing a name might mean, but he decided the best thing to do would be to carry the message.
He hurried down to the basement. As soon as he opened the door leading to it, down a steep flight of steps, Larry thought he had gotten into a boiler factory by mistake. The noise was deafening, and the presses were thundering away like some giant machine grinding tons of rocks to atoms.
Half-naked men were running about here and there. In one corner was a furnace full of melted lead for making the stereotype plates. Larry made his way through the maze of wheels, machinery, and presses.
He was met by a youth whose face was covered with ink.
“Where’s Mr. Dunn?” asked Larry, shouting at the top of his voice.
The youth did not bother to answer in words. He had been in the pressroom long enough to know the uselessness of trying to make himself heard above the din. He had understood Larry’s question from watching his lips, and pointed over in one corner.
There Larry found a quiet man marking something in a book.
“Mr. Emberg says to smash that name!” yelled the boy, handing over the paper. He was afraid he had not made himself heard, but Mr. Dunn seemed to comprehend, for he nodded several times, though he did not seem pleased. He hated to stop the presses, once they were running, until all the edition was off.
However, it had to be done. He left his corner, and went around the rear of the ponderous machine, where the paper, in a large roll, was fed in at one end, to emerge, folded and printed sheets, at the other. Mr. Dunn seized a rope, and yanked it. A bell rang, and the press began to slacken up.
The type from which the paper was printed was cast in one solid sheet, there being several of the sheets, just the size of a page. Each one was half-circular, and fitted around a cylinder on the press. This cylinder whirled around, and the paper, passing under it in a continuous roll, received the impressions.
Once the press was stopped Mr. Dunn crawled up into a sort of hole in front of the cylinder, Then he had the press worked slowly, until the particular page he had to reach came into view.
Next, with a hammer and chisel he smashed the name of Jones so that it was a meaningless blur. After that the press started its thundering again. The remainder of the papers would not contain the name of Jones, and so there would be no danger of that gentleman coming in and demanding an apology for a misstatement made about him. Often papers have to resort to this emergency when it is too late to correct directly in type an error that has been made.
When Larry was eating supper that night he happened to glance out of the window. He saw an unusual light in the sky, and first took it for a glow from some gas furnace or smelting works across on the Jersey shore. But, as he watched, the light grew more brilliant, and there was a cloud of smoke and a shower of sparks.
“That’s a big fire!” he exclaimed, jumping up.
“You’re not going to it, are you, Larry?” asked his mother.
“I think I’d better,” he replied. “Most of the men are working to-night, and none of them may go to the blaze. If we want a good story we must be right on the spot. So I think I’ll go, though I may find Mr. Newton or someone else covering it.”
“Well, be careful, and don’t go too near,” cautioned Mrs. Dexter, who was quite nervous.
“I’ll look out for myself,” said Larry, with all the assurance lads usually have.
“Take me to the fire, I’ll help you report it,” begged Jimmy.
“Not to-night,” answered Larry. “It’s probably a good way off, and you’d get tired.”
“Then you can carry me,” spoke the little fellow, ready to cry at not being allowed to go.
“You stay here, and I’ll tell you a story,” promised Lucy, who had grown to be a strong, healthy girl since the surgical operation. “I’ll tell you about Jack the Giant Killer.”
“Will you truly?” cried Jimmy. “Then I don’t care about the old fire.”
He climbed up into his sister’s lap, and soon was deeply interested in the story. Larry got on his hat and coat, and started out on the run. He found a big crowd in the street, hurrying toward the fire.
“They say it’s a gas tank,” said someone.
“I heard it was an armory,” remarked another.
“It’s neither; it’s a big hotel, and about a hundred people are burned to death,” put in a third.
“Whatever it is, it’s surely a big fire,” was a fourth man’s response as he started to run.
Larry wanted to get to the fire in a hurry, so he asked the first policeman he met where the blaze was. Learning that it was well up town, though the glare in the sky made it seem nearer, Larry decided to get on an elevated train to save a long walk.
As he neared the scene he could see the sky growing brighter, and the cloud of smoke increasing in volume. The trail of sparks across the heavens became larger. Down in the street an ever-increasing throng was hastening toward the conflagration.
Larry dashed from the train as it slacked up at the station nearest the fire. He ran down the stairs, and through the streets. As he came into view of the blaze he saw it was a big drygoods store, which was a mass of fire. It evidently had secured a good start, as every window was belching tongues of yellow flame.
Larry found a crowd of policemen lined up some distance away from the conflagration, keeping people back of the fire lines. Fortunately Larry had a newspaper badge with him, and the sight of this, with a statement that he was from theLeader, soon gained him admittance within the cordon.
He could not but think of the first time he had been at a fire in New York, how he had helped Mr. Newton, and, incidentally, got his place on the paper.
But there was no time for idle speculation. The fire was making rapid headway, and, in response to a third and fourth alarm that the chief had sent in, several more engines were thundering up, and taking their places near water hydrants, their whistles screeching shrilly, and the horses prancing and dancing on the stones from which their iron-shod hoofs struck sparks in profusion.
Larry made a quick circle of the building, which occupied an entire block, but failed to see any reporters from theLeader. He knew it was only chance that would bring them to the place, since most of them had assignments in different parts of the city.
“I guess I’ll have to cover this all alone,” thought Larry. “And it’s going to be a big job.”
In fact, it was one of the worst and largest fires New York ever had. It was no small task for several reporters to cover it, and for a young and inexperienced one to undertake it was almost out of the question. But Larry decided that he would do his best.
He went at it in a business-like way, noting the size and general shape of the building, and how the fire was spreading. Then he found how many engines were on hand, and from a group of policemen, who had nothing in particular to do except keep the throng back, Larry learned that the fire had been discovered in the basement about half an hour before. One of the bluecoats told how two janitors in the place had been obliged to slide down a rope, as they were caught by the flames on a side of the building where there were no fire escapes.
Larry got the names of the men from a policeman whose beat took in the store, and who knew them. Then he heard of several other interesting details, which he jotted down. All the while he was hoping some otherLeadermen would happen along to aid him, and relieve him of some responsibility. But none came.
The store was now a raging furnace. The whole scene was one of magnificent if terrible splendor. High in the air shot a shower of sparks, and every now and then a wall would fall in with a crash that sounded loud above the puffing of the engines, the shrill tootings of the whistles, and the hoarse cries of the firemen.
With a rattle louder than any of the apparatus that had preceded it, the water tower dashed up. It had been sent for when the chief saw that with the ordinary machines he would be unable to cope with the raging flames.
Under the power of compressed air the tower rose high, a long, thin tube of steel. Hose lines from several steamers were quickly attached, and the engines began pumping.
Out of the end of the tube shot a powerful stream of water that fairly tore out part of a side wall it was directed against, and spurted in on the forked tongues that were leaping up from the seething caldron of fire. A cheer went up from the big crowd that gathered as they saw the water tower come into play.
“That’ll soon settle the fire!” cried one man, on the sidewalk, near where the young reporter was standing.
“It will take more than one tower to put out this blaze,” rejoined a companion. “I believe it’s spreading.”
Others seemed to think so, too, for there were a number of quick orders from the chief, and his assistants ran to execute them. Two more water towers were soon on the scene, and then the fire seemed to be in a fair way of being put under control.
Larry was busy going from one side to the other of the big block which the burning department store occupied. He saw several incidents that he made notes of, knowing they would add interest to the story he hoped to write.
On the north side of the structure there loomed a big blank wall, that as yet had not succumbed to the flames. A number of firemen were standing near the base of it, endeavoring to break a hole through so they might get a stream of water on the flames from that side, since to get a ladder to the top of the wall was impossible, as the flames were raging at the upper edge.
Larry paused to watch them. Fierce blows were struck at the masonry with sledges and axes. Pieces of bricks and mortar flew all about. The men had made a small hole, which they were rapidly enlarging when a hoarse voice cried:
“Back! back, men! For your lives! The wall is coming down!”
The fire-fighters needed no second warning. They dropped their implements, and sprang back. Then with a crash that sounded like an explosion, the entire wall toppled over into the street.
Several of the firemen were caught under the débris, and pinned down. Their cries for help brought scores of their comrades up on the run, and Larry pressed forward to see all there was, in order to put it into the story.
“Look out!” called a policeman guarding the fire lines. “More danger overhead!”
Almost as he spoke, a big piece of masonry toppled down, and landed in the street not two feet from where Larry was standing, peering forward to see how the firemen fared. If it had struck him he would have been killed.
“Easy there, men!” called an assistant chief. “Go slow!”
“We don’t care for the danger! We’re going to get the boys out!” cried several of the unfortunate men’s comrades.
“All right, go ahead, I guess most of the wall’s down now,” spoke the assistant chief. “Here, you, young man!” he called to Larry. “What you doing here? Don’t you know you nearly got killed then?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Larry, trying to speak calmly. “But I’m a reporter, and I have to stay here.”
“Oh, you’re a reporter, eh?” asked the fireman, as he started in to help his men. “Well, I suppose you think you’re like a cat, and have nine lives, but you’d better be careful! Now get back a bit, while we see if any of these poor fellows are alive.”
Larry got some distance away, though not so far but that he could see what was going on. The crowd on this side had increased in size as the word went around that several firemen were buried in the ruins.
The rescuers worked madly, tearing at the hot bricks with picks and shovels. With crowbars they pried apart big masses of masonry. The lurid flames lighted up the scene with dancing tongues of fire, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the crackle of the blaze, the toots of the engines, and the hoarse yells of the men.
With loudly clanging bells several ambulances now drew up opposite where the imprisoned men were. They had been telephoned for as soon as it was known that an accident had occurred. After several minutes’ work one of the firemen was taken out. The white-suited doctor hurried to his side, and bent over the man. He listened to his heart.
“It’s too late,” said the physician. “He’s dead.”
Something like a groan went up from the unfortunate fellow’s comrades. It was quickly succeeded by a cheer, however, as another man was brought out. This one was very much alive.
“Be jabbers, b’ys!” he exclaimed, in jolly Irish accents, “it was a hot place ye took me from, more power t’ ye!” and, wiggling out of the hold of his rescuers, the fireman began dancing a jig in the light of the flames.
In quick succession half a dozen more were taken out. There were no more dead bodies, but several of the men were badly hurt, and were hurried off to the hospitals. Larry got their names from other firemen, and jotted them down.
The young reporter had almost forgotten about his narrow escape, so anxious was he to get a good account of the fire, when he was surprised to hear a voice at his side saying:
“Are you trying to get all the good stories that happen?”
Larry looked up, and saw Mr. Newton.
“Golly, but I’m glad to see you!” said Larry.
“What’s this I hear about you nearly getting caught under a wall?” asked Mr. Newton. “A policeman told me.”
“It wasn’t anything,” replied Larry. “I was trying to get close to where the accident happened.”
“There’s such a thing as getting too close,” remarked Mr. Newton, grimly. “Get the news, and don’t be afraid, but don’t go poking your head into the lion’s mouth. You can take it easier now. I’m going to help you.”
“Did you know I was here?” asked Larry.
“No. Mr. Emberg heard of the fire, and telephoned me I had better cover it.”
“It’s ’most over now,” observed Larry.
“So I see,” remarked Mr. Newton, as he noted that the flames were dying out under the dampening influence of tons of water poured on them. “You’ve seen the best part of it. I suppose it will make a good story?”
“Fine,” replied Larry. “I only hope I can write it up in good shape.”
“I guess you can, all right,” responded Mr. Newton. “I’ll help you. Perhaps you had better go home now, as your mother might be worried about you.”
Larry agreed that this was a good plan, and made his way through the crowd to a car, which he boarded for his home, arriving somewhat after midnight.
His mother was sitting up waiting for him, and was somewhat alarmed at his absence, as rumors of the big fire had spread downtown, and it was said that a number had been killed.
“I’m so glad you were not hurt, Larry,” said she. “I hope you were in no danger.”
“Not very much,” replied Larry, for he did not think it well to tell his mother how nearly he had been hurt.
When Mr. Emberg learned the next day that Larry had, without being particularly assigned to it, covered the big fire, the city editor was much pleased. He praised the lad highly, and said he appreciated what Larry had done.
The young reporter had his hands full that day writing an account of the fire. Mr. Newton gave him some help, but the story, in the main, was Larry’s, with some corrections the copy readers made.
“It’s a story to be proud of,” said Mr. Emberg, when the last edition had gone to press. “You are doing well, Larry.”
One afternoon, several days later, when Larry had been sent to the City Hall to get some information about a report the municipal treasurer was about to submit, the boy was standing in the corridor, having telephoned the story in. He saw a short, dark-complexioned man, with a heavy black mustache walking up and down the marble-paved hall. Several times the stranger stopped, and peered at Larry.
“I hope he will recognize me when he sees me again,” thought the lad.
“Hello, Larry,” called a reporter on another paper, as he came from the tax office, where he had been in search of a possible story. “Anything good?”
“No,” replied Larry. “I was down on that yarn about the treasurer’s report. You got that, I guess.”
“Oh, yes, we got that. Nothing else, eh?”
“Not that I know of. I’m just holding down the job until Mr. Newton gets back. He went out to get a bite to eat, and they didn’t like to leave the Hall uncovered.”
“Well, I guess you can hold it down all right,” replied the other. “That was a good story of the fire that you wrote.”