The reporter who had been detailed to call up the hospitals was soon in communication with them. He learned of the condition of the men as soon as the doctors had made an examination. One man died as he was being carried in. These facts were rapidly told to Anderson, who wove them into his story. When part of the account had been written, and sent to the composing room Mr. Emberg began making a heading for the story.
It was to be a “horse head,” with plenty of black type, and covering a good section of the page. When part of this was written it was sent upstairs, and the editor continued to write out the remainder. Thus not a second was lost.
In less than three-quarters of an hour from the time the explosion happened, theLeaderwas out on the street with a very good account of the accident. In fact, before the firemen had come away, having brought up from the tank the last body, newsboys were selling copies of the paper containing the story of the terrible happening, about the scene. It was good and quick work.
By this time the photographer sent to make a view of the wrecked tank had returned to the office, having made several exposures. In the darkroom the plates were developed. Prints were made. Then they were re-photographed; the other plates were put through a process, and the thin film that contains the image was removed from the glass, and put on a zinc plate.
Acids were poured over this, and by the use of certain chemicals the image on the film was transferred to the zinc plate. This was quickly made ready, and mounted on a lead block.
It was now almost time for the last edition. The story of the accident had been made much longer, for Larry, Mr. Newton, Smith, and Robinson were sending in new details. They were quickly set up, and the type was placed in the forms. The picture was also put into the place it was to occupy on the front page.
Then the form was covered with wetpapier-maché, which was pressed into the type while soft, and baked on by means of steam, under a heavy weight. When the “matrix,” as it is called, being a piece of cardboard with an exact reproduction of every letter in the type, or every line in the picture, was ready, it was rushed to the stereotyping department. There a lead plate, curved in a half-circle, was made from it, and this plate, with a dozen others, each one representing a page of theLeader, was clamped onto the presses.
The machinery was adjusted, and the press started, the papers being printed at the rate of many thousands an hour. Thus the last edition came out, about two hours after the accident, with a picture of the scene, and the exploded tank. It was up-to-date newspaper work.
“Well, I guess we’ve done about all we can to-day,” remarked Mr. Newton, addressing his helpers. “We’ve covered everything I can think of. I guess we beat some of the other papers. Haven’t seen any of them around here yet.”
“It certainly was a bad accident,” remarked Larry, who had never before seen such a terrible one.
“This isn’t so much,” spoke Smith. “You should have seen the one over on the Jersey meadows, when nineteen were killed by the train in the fog.”
“That’s right,” replied Robinson. “That was something of an accident.”
“I don’t want to see any worse than this,” said Larry. “This will last me for a while.”
“Shall we go back now?” asked Smith.
“I guess so,” responded Mr. Newton. “Tell you what you might do, Larry: get an interview with the head of the gas company. We can work it in to-morrow. Ask him how he accounts for the accident, have him explain how the gas could leak into the tank, and how a spark could be struck. It will be a good feature, if you can get him to talk.”
So, while the others went back to theLeaderoffice, Larry prepared to get an interview with the president of the gas concern. He inquired of the superintendent of the place, and found that the man he wanted to see was a Mr. Reynolds. Learning where his office was located, Larry went there.
When he told the messenger who was stationed in the president’s anteroom that he was from theLeader, the messenger grinned, as much as to remark that the president would not see reporters. But the lad came back with the information that Larry would be given a short interview. He was ushered into the president’s office.
As soon as he caught a glimpse of him Larry wondered where he had seen Mr. Reynolds before. Then it came back to him. This was the gentleman who had lost the valuable jewels which Larry had found hidden in the vacant lot one night. Mr. Reynolds, who was a rich banker, as well as head of the gas company, had paid Larry one thousand dollars reward for recovering the gems.
“I ought to remember him,” thought Larry.
“Well, what can I do for you?” asked Mr. Reynolds, in gruff tones, quite different, Larry thought, from the manner he had used in thanking him for the recovery of the jewels.
The young reporter asked the questions Mr. Newton had suggested, and was given answers that explained how the explosion occurred. Mr. Reynolds claimed that it was no fault of the gas concern, and stated that the families of the victims would be provided for.
“It was a terrible occurrence,” said Mr. Reynolds, “and we regret it as much as anyone. We try to take every safeguard for our employees, but accidents will happen, sometimes, in spite of all our care.”
Larry asked a few more questions, and was about to take his leave, when Mr. Reynolds, who had been looking at him rather sharply, inquired:
“Where have I seen you before, young man?”
“I brought back your jewels,” replied Larry.
“Oh, yes, yes! So you did! I have been wondering where I saw you. Well, you didn’t find any more of my diamonds, did you?”
“No,” replied Larry. “Didn’t you get them all back?”
“All of them,” repeated Mr. Reynolds. “I was only joking. Though, to be exact, we did not get all of them back. The thieves kept a valuable heirloom.”
“What was it?”
“It was a ring,” replied Mr. Reynolds, “in the shape of a snake, coiled around three times. For eyes it had two rubies, and in the end of the tail was a diamond. It was not very costly, but I valued it for its associations. It had been in our family for over two hundred years, and I would like very much to have kept it.”
“Then it wasn’t in the box that I dug up?” asked Larry.
“No trace of it, though it was taken with the other things the thieves carried off. By the way, they never found those thieves, did they?”
“No,” replied Larry.
“I suppose one of them took a fancy to my ring, and wore it himself, instead of hiding it with the rest of the booty,” mused Mr. Reynolds. “Well, if you ever should happen to come across it, and you might, for you’re a lucky lad, I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.”
“I’d be glad to find it for you without the reward,” Larry said. “But I’m afraid there’s little hope.”
“Not much, I guess,” agreed Mr. Reynolds. “Now is there anything more you’d like to know about this terrible explosion?”
“I guess I have everything I need,” answered the young reporter. “I’m much obliged to you.”
“Not at all,” responded Mr. Reynolds. “I find it pays better to be perfectly frank with the newspapers. They’ll find things out, anyhow, and you might as well tell them first, and get it in right.”
Larry went back to the office, where he wrote up his interview with Mr. Reynolds, in readiness for the next day’s paper. Then he went home.
“I wonder if Jimmy’s been kidnapped,” thought the boy, as he neared his house. In the excitement over the explosion he had forgotten, for a while, the threats the gang had made.
Larry was quite relieved when he got to the house, and found that nothing unusual had occurred. He was tired from the day’s work, and his mind was full of the terrible scenes he had witnessed. Soon after supper he went to bed.
Larry’s room opened out on a fire-escape. As it was warm he had his window open, though it made the room more noisy. Several times during the night he thought he heard someone moving on the escape near his room, but he was too sleepy to get up and make an investigation.
“If it’s burglars they’ll not get much here,” he thought, as he turned over, and went to sleep again.
Larry awoke with a strange feeling that something had happened. It was as if he had dreamed a nightmare, the thoughts of which still lingered with him. At first he thought it might be a foreboding that Jimmy had been captured by the gang during the night. He jumped out of bed, but, as he did so, he heard his brother’s voice in the next room and knew that the little chap was safe.
“It’s all nonsense,” thought Larry to himself, as he began to dress. “I’m thinking too much about this. I’m getting to be as nervous and fidgety as a girl. I must go to work, and forget all about it.”
He walked over to the bureau for his collar. As he picked it up his attention was attracted by a piece of paper pinned to the bureau cover.
“That’s queer,” he remarked, “I don’t remember putting that there. I wonder if I’m beginning to walk in my sleep, and write notes to myself.”
He unpinned the paper. It was folded several times, and when Larry had opened it, he saw printed in large letters this message:
“FOUR DAYS MORE.BLUE HAND.”
“FOUR DAYS MORE.BLUE HAND.”
Larry did not disguise from himself the fact that he was frightened. That the gang had not given up the matter, but was acting along the lines the members had laid down, seemed certain. It showed also that they were keeping close watch of the time, and of Larry’s movements.
“That must have been what the noises were I heard out on the roof,” Larry mused, as he finished dressing. “They are certainly a bold band to come into my room at night, and pin this here. They ran the risk of being taken for burglars, and, though I haven’t a revolver to shoot, someone who saw them on the fire-escape might put a bullet into them.”
That he was being watched by a desperate gang, who had possession of his deed, and who would go to almost any length to accomplish their purpose, Larry had no doubt. He felt more than ever the necessity of guarding his little brother, yet he did not know how to do it.
To speak to his mother, Larry felt, would only cause her so much alarm that it might make her ill, as her health was not very good. As for Jimmy he was too small to appreciate his danger, even if he had been told. The only thing to do was to make him believe in the danger of automobiles, and have him keep close to the house.
Yet even that might count for little, seeing that the members of the gang had shown that they did not fear to enter the house, giving no warning.
“I wonder what I’d better do?” thought Larry, conscious of the feeling that it was no easy task to be a lad pitted against a powerful band of men bent on doing him injury. “I’m almost willing to sign the deed, and let them have the property for the money they’ll give. Of course, it is nothing like what I believe it to be worth, but it would save a lot of trouble.”
So convinced, at first, was he that this would be the best plan, that, before he finished dressing, he sat down, and began to write out an advertisement to “Blue Hand,” that he could put in the paper to give notice the deed would be signed.
“No! I’ll not do it!” decided Larry, suddenly. “I’ll fight ’em. We’ll see if they’ll dare to do as they say. I’m at a disadvantage, but I’ll do my best to get ahead of those fellows. I’ll not give in until they do something worse than leave notes in my room, anyhow.”
Then, feeling better, now that he had made up his mind to fight, Larry finished dressing, and went to breakfast, as if getting mysterious notes during the night was not unusual.
Larry’s first assignment when he reached the office was to get an account of a wedding that had occurred the night before. There are two assignments reporters hate to cover, weddings and obituaries, and Larry, in his brief experience, had come to feel much as did all other members of his profession about these things. But, just as a reporter never shrinks from danger in getting a story for his paper (if he is a real reporter, and not a pretended one), so none of them ever “kick,” at least to their city editor, when they get a disagreeable assignment.
Larry started off to get the wedding, which was that of persons fairly well known, or else theLeadernever would have sent for it. Usually some of the women reporters on the paper attended to these society affairs, but at that time one of the women was away on vacation, and the other had double work to do, so the men had to help out, and much grumbling there was in consequence.
“I don’t see what people want to get married for,” thought Larry, as he walked along the street where the house of the bride was located. “At least if they do, I don’t see why they want it in the papers. I’d rather cover an Anarchist meeting, than go where a lot of women will tell how the bride looked, and what she wore.”
Thus talking to himself, Larry walked along, forgetting in his sense of injury to take note of the numbers of the houses. Suddenly his feet slid out from under him, and he went down on the sidewalk rather hard.
He had stepped into a lot of rice that covered the flags for quite a distance, the small kernels making the stones very slippery. Larry picked himself up, and looked about to see if his undignified arrival in a sitting position had been observed by anyone. The street seemed deserted.
“I guess this is where the wedding was,” he said. “This is some of the rice they threw at the bride for good luck. It was bad luck for me, though. Well, here goes,” and with that Larry walked up the steps, which were white with kernels, and rang the bell.
To the girl who opened the door Larry stated his errand; that he had come to get an account of the wedding.
“Come in,” said the servant, a good-natured-looking Irish girl. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“You mean just now?”
“Yes, when you fell,” and she began to laugh at Larry.
“Oh,” said the reporter, blushing at the remembrance of his fall, “no, I guess not. Did you see me?”
“I was at the window,” said the girl. “I couldn’t help laughing, you went down so sudden.”
“Well, I didn’t get a letter or a telegram to say it was about to happen, that’s a fact,” admitted Larry, joining in the girl’s merriment.
“Come in,” said the maid; “none of the family is up yet, but I guess Miss Clarice will soon be down, and she’ll give you all the particulars. It was a sweet wedding, to be sure, and the bride looked lovely.”
“Um,” grunted Larry, beneath his breath. He was not particularly fond of lovely brides. He was shown into a large parlor, back of which was a drawing-room, and both apartments bore evidences of the previous night’s gayeties. Flowers were strewn about the floor, and there was rice over everything, while a number of old shoes were in one corner.
“We haven’t cleaned up yet,” the girl said. “It was three o’clock when we got to bed.”
She left Larry sitting alone in the darkened parlor, while she went about her duties. Larry sat there for half an hour. Then he began to get nervous.
“I wonder if they’ve forgotten all about me,” thought the young reporter. “I’ve got something else to do besides sitting here waiting for someone to come, and tell me about a wedding.”
He gave a loud cough, to attract the attention of anyone who might be within hearing.
“Oh, how you frightened me!” exclaimed a voice, and a tall, dark, and exceedingly pretty girl came into the room. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”
“I’m from theLeader,” said Larry, rising. “I came about the wedding.”
“Oh, are you a real, truly reporter?” asked the girl.
“Well, I think I can say I am,” replied Larry.
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to see a real reporter,” the girl went on. “It must be a grand life. Think of seeing terrible fires, and big accidents, and writing about murders, and suicides, and battles, and sudden death, and—and all sorts of horrible, scary things! Oh, I would love to be a reporter, only papa will not hear of it. Did you ever see a drowned man?”
“Several,” replied Larry, wondering what kind of a girl this was.
“Oh, how lovely! And did you ever see a real, live, truly, really murderer?”
“Well, I have seen men in the Tombs, accused of murder, though they had not been convicted yet.”
“Oh, how perfectly fascinating! I must get papa to let me be a reporter.”
“About this wedding,” began Larry. “Could you——”
“Oh, don’t let’s talk about weddings,” interrupted the girl. “They’re horrid, stupid things. Tell me something about what you report. And to think I’ve seen a real reporter, just as I’ve always wanted to.”
Larry agreed with her statement about weddings being stupid affairs, but he felt he was sent to get an account of one, and not to talk about himself. He was a little uncertain how to proceed.
“Were you ever at a fire?” the girl went on.
“Several times,” replied Larry. “What is the bride’s name, if you please?”
“Did the walls fall and crush anyone?” asked Larry’s questioner, paying no attention to what he said.
“I think so. Can you tell me the groom’s name?”
“Were you ever in an explosion, Mr. Reporter?”
“Well, close to one, once. Now about this wedding. I wish——”
“Show me how you write stories,” the girl went on. “I think it must be perfectly lovely to write things for the paper? Do you think I could?”
“I guess so,” replied Larry, in desperation. He did not know what to do, and did not wish to offend the girl, who was very pretty, and seemed much in earnest in her questions. But help came from an unexpected quarter.
“Why, Clarice!” exclaimed a woman’s voice, as she came into the room. “I have been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing?”
“I am giving the reporter from theLeaderan account of the wedding,” replied Clarice, with a smile.
“How far have you gone with it?” asked her mother. “If you do as you usually do, you have asked more questions than you have answered.”
“I was only asking about a reporter’s life,” spoke the girl. “It’s perfectly lovely. They see murdered people——”
“Clarice, you must not talk so!” exclaimed her mother. “Now, you run upstairs, and I’ll tell the young man about the wedding.”
Pouting a little the girl went out, nodding and smiling at Larry. The bride’s mother then gave the young reporter a story of the ceremony.
Larry got along all right as far as taking the name of the bride, that of the groom, the officiating minister, and the attendants at the wedding ceremony was concerned. But when he came to take notes of the kinds of material in the dresses and the styles, he found himself helplessly at sea.
“The bride’s dress was cuten traine,” said Mrs. Loftus, the mother of the young woman who had been married.
“I didn’t catch that about her dress being cut by a train,” said Larry.
Mrs. Loftus laughed.
“Oh, you poor boy!” she exclaimed. “It’s a shame to send you after a wedding. They ought to have a woman to describe the dresses. I don’t wonder things get in the paper wrong. Who could expect a man to tell about a woman’s dress? But I’ll explain it to you.”
Then she kindly initiated Larry into the mysteries of the feminine styles. She told himen trainemeant that the dress had what old-fashioned persons called a “long trail,” which swept on the ground. She also told him how to spell such words as “mousselaine,” “peau de soie,” “crêpe de Chine,” and other terms that described the different materials.
With her help Larry did not make out so badly as he feared he would at first, but he was glad when he had all the facts, and could go back to the office to write them up. On his way out he saw Clarice peering over the balustrade at him.
“Good-by, Reporter!” she called, with a merry laugh, and Larry, though not knowing exactly what to make of her questions, thought she was one of the nicest girls he had ever seen.
He managed to turn out an account of the wedding, though it was not a very good one in his estimation. But Mr. Emberg did not seem to be very particular about it.
“Hurry through with that, Larry,” he said. “I have something else for you.”
So Larry finished by telling how the bridal couple had gone on a trip South, and turned his copy in at the city desk.
“I’m up now,” he said, that being the reporter’s expressive way of notifying the city editor or his assistant that he is ready for another assignment.
“I want you to go up to Madison Square Garden,” said Mr. Emberg. “The circus has come to town, and I want a good descriptive story of how the animals got in, what the men are doing in the way of getting the Garden into shape, something about the freaks, and whatever else you see of interest. Make it a sort of special yarn, and do your best.”
That was an assignment any reporter would have been pleased to get, for though some of the older men had done it for years, and there remained little or nothing that was new in it, still the spirit of the boy seemed to linger in them, and there were always plenty who were eager for the chance to “write up” the circus.
Larry appreciated his chance, and determined to do his best. He soon arrived at the Garden, and found the place in great confusion. Hundreds of men were scattered about the huge place. Some were erecting the tiers of seats, others were constructing the rings or stages on which the performers would appear; while high in the air, near the roof of the immense amphitheater, men, looking like spiders, were in a web of ropes, adjusting the trapezes.
In one corner was a group of tumblers and acrobats going through their “stunts,” to keep in practice, for the show was to open in two days. On some of the trapezes the men and women were swinging about, and in one section of the Garden a troupe of Japanese contortionists and balancers were doing seemingly impossible feats.
As Larry watched he saw a man in pink tights come out of a dressing-room, followed by several of the circus helpers. The performer went to where a trapeze swung high in the air. From the cross-bar there dangled a rope, which the man in tights grasped. Larry was near enough to overhear what was being said.
“I’m going to give ’em something new,” he remarked to a man with a long whip, who seemed to be a ringmaster.
“What is it?” asked the man with the whip.
“Watch me, and you’ll see.”
Then the one in pink tights went up the rope hand over hand, with an ease that seemed surprising to Larry, who had often tried the thing at Campton, in his father’s barn, when, with other country boys, he had played circus.
Reaching the trapeze, the man sat down on the bar, and began to swing to and fro. He seemed to be adjusting the ropes. Then he turned over backward, and swung by his knees, head downward. Working his body back and forth he caused the trapeze to sway rapidly to and fro, in a long swing.
For several minutes this went on, until the trapeze was moving backward and forward, with its human burden, as far as possible.
Suddenly the man in pink tights gave a loud cry just as he reached the highest point in a backward swing. Then, to Larry’s horror, and seemingly no less to the astonishment of the ringmaster and the helpers, the man was seen shooting downward, as if the ropes of the trapeze had broken. Larry was sure the man would be killed.
But, just when it seemed that the man’s head would strike the ground, and he be terribly injured, the ropes suddenly became taut, and the performer’s downward course was checked, though he continued to swing back and forth in large arcs.
All at once he straightened up, and lightly leaped from the cross-bar.
“What do you think of that for a hair-raiser?” he asked. “Won’t that make ’em sit up and take notice some?”
“It sure will,” replied the ringmaster. “I thought you were a goner. How did you manage that?”
“I had the ropes on both sides shortened by a series of slip-knots,” the man in pink tights explained. “Then, when I was swinging good and hard, I yanked the cord that held the first two knots in place. The weight of my body pulled the others out, and the rope began to lengthen, and you saw me come down. I had it calculated so that I would cease falling a little ways from the ground.”
“It’s a good trick,” commented the ringmaster.
Larry thought so, too, and wondered how men cared to risk their lives in such dangerous performances. If the rope should break when the man’s descent was so suddenly checked, he would surely be killed.
Larry saw about all there was going on among the performers, and decided next to visit the animal quarters. There he found a very lively place indeed. Some of the cages of wild beasts had just arrived from the train on which the circus came to New York, having been out on the road. The big wagons, containing lions, tigers, leopards, hyenas, giraffes, hippopotami, snakes, monkeys, bears, and other denizens of the forest, plain, or desert were rolled into place, either by horses pulling them, or by the elephants pushing them.
Larry was quite surprised to see how these huge and seemingly unwieldy and clumsy creatures were made to perform hard work. They were useful as well as being ornamental, from a showman’s standpoint. Putting their big heads against a wagon or truck that would take the strength of eight horses, one elephant would shove it into place with ease, two men at the tongue directing its course.
Larry found the head animal man, who gave the young reporter some facts to use in his story for the paper, and related a few incidents of the recent trip.
While the cage of lions was being put into place there came from it a terrifying roar. It seemed to shake the very ground.
“Old Nero isn’t feeling in the best of spirits,” said the animal trainer. “He’s got a bad tooth that pains him, and he’s as ugly as they come. I hope nothing happens. If he got out——” The showman shrugged his shoulders in a way that told more than words.
“Look out, there!” he cried, suddenly, to the men who were guiding the pole of the cage containing Nero. “You’ll run into that post if you don’t look out. There you go! Call to that elephant to stop pushing, somebody!” yelled the trainer, for a huge elephant was shoving the lion’s cage into place.
The men at the guiding pole had slipped, and the cage was headed straight for a big iron pillar.
The next instant there was a crash of splintering wood, and the cage ran full tilt into the column.
“Lookout, everybody!” the trainer cried. “Nero’s cage is open! Get the hot irons ready, in case he’s loose!”
The elephant ceased pushing now, and backed up a few paces. From the cage came a roar more terrible than any that had preceded it, and, as if awakened by a call to battle, all the other wild beasts began to utter their cries, so that the Garden sounded like a section of a South African jungle.
Suddenly a tawny yellow streak shot out of the lion’s cage, launched itself through the air, and landed on the elephant’s back.
“Nero’s out!” yelled the trainer. “Lay low, everybody!”
The roars of the maddened beast had turned to angry growls. It crouched low on the back of the huge elephant, sinking its claws into the brute’s hide. The pachyderm trumpeted loudly in pain and terror.
A group of trainers and helpers huddled together in a space made by several cages. The men were afraid to run, for fear of attracting the attention of the lion to themselves.
“Here!” cried the head trainer. “I’ll get the hot irons! If he comes this way fire this revolver at him. It’s only got blanks in it, but it may scare him back to his cage. Only the door is broken. If we get him in we can scare him into remaining there.”
Then throwing a big revolver down on the sawdust, the trainer ran to where the irons were heating. At that instant the lion leaped from the elephant’s back, and came straight at the men. Not one stayed to see what would happen next, but fled in a hurry. Nor did anyone pick up the revolver.
Larry, who had been standing near the head trainer, saw the lion coming. His first thought was to flee, but he hardly knew which way to turn, as he had never been in the Garden before, and did not know where safety was. Then, hardly knowing what he was doing, Larry leaped forward, and grabbed the revolver. The lion was not twenty feet away, and was trotting straight at him, growling menacingly.
“Fire at him! Fire at him!” cried the head trainer, who was at the far side of the quarters. He had grabbed two hot irons from the furnace, where they were kept in readiness for just such emergencies.
The lion, seeing the boy standing in front of him, crouched for a spring. Larry’s heart was beating like a triphammer, and his hand trembled so he could hardly hold the revolver.
Then, like a streak of sunshine, the beast leaped for him.
“Crack!”
Larry fired the revolver. It was an automatic one, and all he had to do was to pull the trigger. Right at the face of the lion he aimed it, as the animal was in the air above him.
“Crack! Crack! Crack!”
Streaks of fire from the heavy cartridges shot in the direction of the beast.
“Crack!”
It was the last shot. As he fired it Larry leaped to one side to escape the lion’s claws. Then he cast the revolver at the beast, and fled.
But there was no need of this. Cowed by the streaks of flame, and the noise of the reports, the brute, who had been only slightly wounded, had no sooner landed on the sawdust, than, with tail between its legs, it started back toward the cage it had left.
“Chase after him, some of you fellows!” shouted the head trainer. “His nerve’s gone now. That boy has more sense and grit than the whole lot of you!”
Now that the danger was practically over, the attendants ran back, and toward the lion’s wagon. The brute, though still growling and roaring, had leaped into its broken cage, where it stood crouching in one corner.
“Quick, now; wheel another cage up in front of the broken one!” the trainer exclaimed. “That will hold him until we can fix his.”
This was soon done, and all further danger was past.
“I’m much obliged to you,” the trainer said, coming up to Larry, having taken the hot irons back. “It was a nervy bit of work.”
“I guess if I’d stopped to think I’d never have done it,” replied Larry.
“That’s all right, my lad, and it was well done, just the same. If Nero had gotten loose, the way he’s feeling now, and once got the taste of human blood, there’s no telling what might have happened.”
The trainer drew a pad from his pocket, and wrote a few lines on it, handing the paper to Larry.
“What’s this?” asked the reporter.
“It’s a pass for you and any friend you want to bring along, to come and see the show,” the trainer replied. “It’s good for two box seats at any performance, and as often as you like to come.”
“I don’t believe I’d better take it,” said Larry. “I didn’t stop the lion for pay, and besides the office might not like it.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” responded the trainer. “I know what you mean; you don’t want to ‘graft’ the way a lot of fellows do who think they’re newspaper men. But that is all right. A real newspaper man never grafts, but this pass isn’t graft. We always send the newspapers lots of tickets, anyhow. It’s part of our advertising contract. This is simply an extra one for yourself, as a sort of recognition for what you did, though it doesn’t begin to pay for the trouble you saved us.”
“If you think it’s all right I’ll take it,” Larry answered.
“Of course it is. Come to the show, and see Nero go through his paces.”
Men by this time had come up to repair the broken cage, and with a nod of farewell, the trainer left Larry, as there were many things to attend to toward getting the circus into shape. Larry wandered about the big Garden, seeing odd little incidents that he made use of in his newspaper story.
He found the manager in charge of the freaks, and introducing himself, Larry started to ask if there was anything new that might make a story.
“Well, yes, here is a little item you might work in,” replied the manager, looking at Larry in what the reporter thought was a strange sort of way. “We’ve a romance on our hands.”
“A romance?”
“Yes, you see the living skeleton has gone and fallen in love with the fat woman.”
“Really?” asked Larry, thinking the manager might be trying to “string” him.
“Of course. Come out and have a talk with him. But that isn’t the worst. You see, the fat lady is smitten with the India rubber man, and the bearded lady has gone and fallen in love with the living skeleton, so you see, things are all mixed up. Come out into the freak room, and see for yourself.”
Wondering whether to believe the story or not, Larry followed the manager. He found the freaks all sitting in one corner of the Garden, on a sort of raised platform. Sure enough the living skeleton was gazing with a sort of lorn expression at the fat lady, who, in turn, was making eyes at the India rubber gentleman, who was practicing stretching his neck until the skin of it almost touched his forehead. The bearded lady, who was combing her whiskers every now and then, glanced in the direction of the living skeleton, who was shivering, though the day was warm.
“You can see for yourself,” spoke the manager, in a whisper. “Don’t make fun of ’em, if you write it up.”
“I’ll be careful,” replied Larry, thinking he had found something that would fit in the circus story very well.
Having about all the material he needed, and seeing that the hour was getting late, Larry decided to go back to the office. He found himself in quite a crowd of men and boys who were hanging around the entrance to the Garden, as he came out. He thought he felt a hand in the side pocket of his coat, as he worked his way through the throng, but, as he knew he had nothing of value in it, he decided, even if it was a pickpocket, he would not stop then to try to capture him. So he pressed on. He was just in time to catch a car for the office, and gave the incident no further thought.
“Well, did you get a good story?” asked Mr. Emberg, as Larry entered the city room.
“Pretty good; one of the lions got loose.”
“Don’t let them work any press-agent yarns off on you,” cautioned the city editor, with a smile, for he was used to such stories from circuses.
“This is true,” replied Larry. “I saw it myself. In fact, I fired a revolver at Nero to drive him back.”
“Was it Nero who was loose?” asked Mr. Newton, overhearing what Larry said.
“That’s what they called him. He seemed ugly enough to be Nero.”
“Then it’s no fake, if you saw Nero loose,” went on Mr. Newton. “He’s the worst lion in captivity. That ought to be a good story.”
“Why in the world didn’t you telephone it in?” asked Mr. Emberg. “You might have been beaten by some of the early editions of the yellows. Hurry up, now, make that the feature of your story.”
Somewhat chagrined over his failure to have appreciated the real news value of the lion incident, Larry began to turn out copy as fast as he could write. Mr. Emberg read it.
“You’re doing all right!” he called to Larry. “It is as good a circus story as we’ve had in a long time. Keep it up.”
Larry told of everything in connection with the escape of Nero, and then began to describe the different scenes, including the way the Garden was being made ready for the crowds. By this time the first edition had gone to press.
“Take your time, now,” said the city editor. “We’ll use the rest in the next edition.”
“I’ve got a good story about the freaks,” said Larry, and he began to tell of the mixed-up romance.
He was interrupted by a burst of laughter, in which several reporters and Mr. Emberg joined.
“It’s true! I saw ’em myself,” exclaimed Larry.
“Of course you did,” admitted Mr. Emberg. “It was gotten up for your benefit. The manager sized you up for a new reporter, and thought the old story might go with you, though he must have known that no copy reader would have passed it.”
“Isn’t it true?” asked Larry, his faith in human nature somewhat shaken.
“It’s one of the oldest press-agent’s yarns that ever did duty in a circus,” said Mr. Newton. “If there were any freaks in the Ark, and they had a press agent, he told that story to the first reporter who interviewed him when Captain Noah’s boat landed on Mount Ararat.”
So Larry learned two things that day. One was that things old reporters think are fakes sometimes turn out to be true, and the other was that you can never believe a manager of the freak department of a circus. Both lessons were useful ones.
When he went out to lunch, Larry put his hand into the side pocket of his coat. He felt an envelope there, and thinking it was a letter which his mother might have given him to mail, and which he had forgotten, he pulled it out. He at once saw that it was no ordinary letter, for the envelope bore a large blue cross upon it.
“Where did that come from,” thought Larry. He opened it. Inside was a small piece of paper, on which was printed:
THREE DAYS MORE.BLUE HAND.
THREE DAYS MORE.BLUE HAND.
“That was what the tugging at my coat in the crowd at the Garden meant,” reasoned Larry. “Some one of the gang must have been close to me. They must be following me around, and keeping track of me wherever I go.”
At first this thought alarmed him. It was unpleasant to feel that someone was always looking at you, knowing your every movement so well that they could slip up, and drop notes into your pocket. Larry felt his courage leaving him. He half determined to agree to the gang’s wishes. Then, as he thought of what Mr. Newton had said, he grew braver, and decided to fight to the end.
That night, going home, Larry was in quite a crowd on the elevated train. He tried to keep watch, and see if anyone dropped anything into his pockets, but the crowd was so dense that it would have been an easy matter for a person to approach him closely, and escape detection.
So Larry was not greatly surprised, when, on reaching the street, he found another missive, in the same language.
The same thing happened on two successive nights. Try as he did he could discover no one, however. He began to be quite nervous. A person who could steal up on him in a crowd, unknown to him, and drop letters into his pocket, was clearly a dangerous customer, Larry reasoned.
On Saturday night, as he left the train, he felt a suspicious tug at his coat pocket. He turned quickly, and caught a glimpse of a youth hurrying through the crowd.
“If that wasn’t Peter Manton I’ll eat my hat,” thought Larry.
He drew out the letter, which, in accordance with his expectations, he found. It read:
THIS IS THE LAST WARNING.
THIS IS THE LAST WARNING.