FROM OFFICE BOY
TO REPORTER

“[NOW THEN, YOU NEW BOY—WHAT’S YOUR NAME?]”

From Office Boy To Reporter

FROM OFFICE BOY
TO REPORTER

OR

THE FIRST STEP IN JOURNALISM

BY
HOWARD R. GARIS

AUTHOR OF “THE WHITE CRYSTALS,” “THE ISLE OF BLACK FIRE,”
“WITH FORCE AND ARMS,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

New York
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers

Copyright, 1907
BY
CHATTERTON-PECK COMPANY

From Office Boy to Reporter

PREFACE

My Dear Boys:—

I have tried to write for you a story of newspaper life and tell how a boy, who started in the lowest position,—that of a copy carrier,—rose to become a reporter. The newspaper covers a wide field, and enters into almost every home, telling of the doings of all the world, including that which takes place right in our midst.

There are many persons in the business, which is an interesting and fascinating one. I have been actively engaged in it for nearly sixteen years, and I have seen many strange happenings. Some of these I have set down in this book for you to read, and I hope you will like them.

There are many things which I had not the time or space to tell about, and which may be related in other books of this series. There have been written many good stories of newspaper life and experiences. I trust I may have added one that will appeal especially to you boys. If I have, I will feel amply repaid for what I have done.

Yours with best wishes,
Howard R. Garis.

January 10, 1907.

CONTENTS

FROM OFFICE BOY
TO REPORTER

CHAPTER I
FORECLOSING THE MORTGAGE

“Now then,” began the shrill voice of the auctioneer, “we’ll start these proceedin’s, if ye ain’t got no objections. Step right this way, everybody, an’ let th’ biddin’ be lively!”

“Hold on a minute!” called a big man in the crowd. “We want to know what the terms are.”

“I thought everybody knowed ’em,” spoke Simon Rollinson, deputy sheriff, of the village of Campton, New York State. “This here farm, belongin’ in fee-simple to Mrs. Elizabeth Dexter, widow of Robert Dexter, containin’ in all some forty acres of tillable land, four acres of pasture an’ ten of woods, is about to be sold, with all stock an’ fixtures, consistin’ of seven cows an’ four horses, an’ other things, to th’ highest bidder, t’ satisfy a mortgage of three thousand dollars.”

“We know all that,” said the big man who had first spoken. “What’s the terms of payment?”

“Th’ terms is,” resumed Simon, “ten per cent. down, an’ the balance in thirty days, an’ the buyer has t’ give a satisfactory bond or——”

“That’ll do, go ahead,” called several.

“Now then, this way, everybody,” went on Mr. Rollinson. “Give me your attention. What am I bid to start this here farm, one of the finest in Onondaga County? What am I bid?”

There was a moment’s silence. A murmur went through the crowd of people gathered in the farmyard in front of a big red barn. Several wanted to bid, but did not like to be the first.

As the deputy sheriff, who acted as the auctioneer, had said, the farm was about to be sold. It was a fine one, and had belonged to Robert Dexter. With his wife Elizabeth, his sons, Larry, aged fifteen, a sturdy lad with bright blue eyes and brown hair, and James, aged eight, his daughters, Lucy, a girl of twelve, afflicted with a bad disease of the spine, and little Mary, just turned four, Mr. Dexter had lived on the place, and had worked it successfully, for several years.

Then he had become ill of consumption. He could not follow the hard life. Crops failed, and in order to get cash to keep his family he was obliged to borrow a large sum of money. He gave the farm as security, and agreed, in case he could not pay the money back in a certain time, that the farm should be forfeited.

He was never able to get the funds together, and this worry, with the ravages of the disease, soon caused his death. Mrs. Dexter, with Larry’s help, made a brave effort to stand up against the misfortune, but it was of no use. She could not pay the interest on the mortgage, and, finally, the holder, Samuel Mortland, foreclosed.

The matter was placed in the hands of the sheriff, whose duty it is to foreclose mortgages, and that official, being a busy man, delegated the unpleasant task to one of his deputies or assistants, who lived in the town of Campton. The sale had been advertised for several miles surrounding the village, and on the date set quite a crowd gathered.

There were farmers from many hamlets, a number of whom brought their wives and families, as a country auction is not unlike a fair or circus as an attraction. There they were sure to meet friends and acquaintances, and, besides, they might pick up some bargains.

“Who’ll make the first offer?” called Mr. Rollinson. “The upset or startin’ price is fifteen hundred dollars, an’ I’ll jest go ahead with that. Now who’ll make it two thousand?”

“I’ll go seventeen hundred,” called a short stout man in the front row.

“Huh! I should think ye would, Nate Jackson. Why, seventeen hundred dollars wouldn’t buy th’ house an’ barn. You’ll hev t’ do better than that!”

“I’ll say eighteen hundred,” cried a woman who seemed to mean business.

“Now you’re talkin’!” cried Mr. Rollinson. “That’s sumthin’ like. Why, jest think of th’ pasture, an’ woodland, an’ cows an’ horses an’——”

“I’ll make it two thousand dollars,” said a third bidder.

“I’m bid two thousand,” cried the deputy sheriff. “Who’ll make it twenty-two hundred?”

Then the auction was in full swing. The bidding became lively, though the advances were of smaller amounts than at first. By degrees the price crept up until it was twenty-nine hundred dollars.

“I’ve got to git at least thirty-one hundred to pay th’ mortgage an’ expenses,” the auctioneer explained. “If I don’t git more than this last bid Mr. Mortland will take the property himself. Now’s your last chance, neighbors.”

This seemed to stimulate the people, and several offers came in at once, until at last the bid was $3,090. There it seemed to stick, no one caring to go any higher, and each one hoping he might, by adding a few dollars more, get possession of the property, which was worth considerable above the figure offered.

While the auction was going on there sat, in the darkened parlor of the farmhouse, Mrs. Dexter and her three younger children. With them were some sympathizing neighbors, who had called to tell her how sorry they were that she had lost the farm.

“What do you intend to do?” asked Mrs. Olney, winding her long cork-screw curls about her fingers.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Mrs. Dexter said. “If we have to leave here, and I suppose we will, I think the only thing to do is to go to my sister. She lives in New York.”

“Let’s see, she married a Jimson, didn’t she?” asked Mrs. Peterkins, another neighbor.

“No, her husband’s name is Edward Ralston,” replied Mrs. Dexter. “He is a conductor on a street car, in New York. My sister wrote to me to come to her if I could find no other place.”

“That would be a wise thing to do,” spoke Mrs. Olney. “New York is such a big place. Perhaps Larry could find some work there.”

“I hope he can,” said Larry’s mother. “He is getting to be a strong boy, but I would rather see him in school.”

“Of course, knowledge is good for the young,” admitted Mrs. Peterkins, “but you’ll need the money Larry can earn.”

“I’m goin’ to earn money when I go to New York!” exclaimed James. “I’m goin’ to the end of the rainbow, where there’s a pot of gold, an’ I’m goin’ to dig it up an’ give it all to mommer.”

“Good for you!” exclaimed Mrs. Olney, clasping the little fellow to her and kissing him. “You’ll be a great help to your mother when you grow up.”

“Kisses is for girls!” exclaimed James, struggling to free himself, whereat even his mother, who had been saddened by the thought of leaving her home, smiled.

“Will—will you have any money left after the place is sold?” asked Mrs. Peterkins.

“I hope it will bring in at least a few hundred dollars above the mortgage,” answered Mrs. Dexter. “If it does not I don’t know what I’ll do. We would have to sell some of the house things to get money enough to travel.”

Outside, the shrill voice of the auctioneer could be heard, for it was summer and the windows were open.

“Third an’ last call!” cried Mr. Rollinson.

“Oh, it’s going to be sold!” exclaimed Mrs. Dexter, with a sound that seemed like a sob in her throat. “The dear old farm is going.”

“Third an’ last call!” the deputy sheriff went on. “Last call! Last call! Going! Going! Gone!”

With a bang that sounded like the report of a rifle, Mr. Rollinson brought his hammer down on the block.

“I declare this farm sold to Jeptha Morrison fer th’ sum of thirty-two hundred and seventy-five dollars,” he cried. “Step this way, Mr. Morrison, an’ I’ll take yer money an’ give ye a receipt. Allers willin’ t’ take money,”—at which sally the crowd laughed.

“Only thirty-two hundred and seventy-five dollars,” repeated Mrs. Dexter. “Why, that will leave scarcely anything for me. The sheriff’s fees will have to be paid, and some back interest. I will have nothing.”

She looked worried, and the two neighbors, knowing what it meant to be a widow without money and with little children to support, felt keenly for her.

“Mother!” exclaimed a voice, and a lad came into the room somewhat excitedly. “Mother, the farm’s sold!”

“Yes, Larry, I heard Mr. Rollinson say so,” said Mrs. Dexter.

“It wasn’t fair!” the boy went on. “We should have got more for it!”

“Hush, Larry. Don’t say it wasn’t fair,” said his mother. “You should accuse no one.”

“But I heard Mr. Mortland going around and telling people not to bid on it, as the title wasn’t good,” the boy declared. “He wanted to scare them from bidding so he could get the property cheap.”

“But he didn’t buy it,” said Mrs. Dexter. “It went to Mr. Morrison.”

“Yes, and he bought it with the money Mr. Mortland supplied him,” Larry cried. “I saw through the whole game. It was a trick of Mr. Mortland’s to get the farm, and he’ll have it in a few weeks. Oh, how I wish I was a man! I’d show them something!”

“Larry, dear,” said his mother reprovingly, and then the boy noticed, for the first time, that others were in the room.

“Of course I haven’t any proof,” Larry continued, “for I only saw Mr. Mortland hand Mr. Morrison some money and heard him tell him to make the last bid. But I have my suspicions, just the same. Why, mother, there will be nothing left for us.”

“That’s what I was telling Mrs. Olney and Mrs. Peterkins,” said Mrs. Dexter with a sigh. “I don’t know how we can get to New York, when railroad fares are so high.”

“I’ll tell you what we must do, mother!” exclaimed Larry.

“What, son?”

“We must sell the furniture.”

“Oh, I could never do that.”

“But we must,” the boy went on. “We cannot take it with us to New York, and we may get money enough from it to help us out. It is the best thing to do.”

CHAPTER II
BAD NEWS

“I believe Larry is right,” said Mrs. Olney. “The furniture would only be a trouble to you, Mrs. Dexter. Now would be a good chance to sell it, while the crowd is here. You ought to get pretty good prices, as much of the stuff is new.”

“Perhaps you are right,” assented the widow, “though I hate to part with the things. Suppose you tell Mr. Rollinson, Larry.”

The boy hurried from the room to inform the auctioneer there was more work for him, and Mrs. Dexter, with her two friends, came from the parlor, for they knew the place would soon be overrun by curious persons looking for bargains.

Mr. Rollinson, anxious to make more commissions, readily undertook to put the furniture up for auction. With the exception of a few articles that she prized very highly, and laying aside only the clothes of herself and children, Mrs. Dexter permitted all the contents of the house to be offered for sale.

Then, having reached this decision, she went off in a bedroom and cried softly, for she could not bear to think of her home being broken up, and strangers using the chairs and tables which, with the other things, had made such a nice place while Mr. Dexter was alive.

Larry had hard work to keep back the tears when he saw some article of furniture, with which were associated happy memories, bid for by some farmer.

When, at length, Mr. Rollinson reached the old armchair, in which Mr. Dexter used to sit and tell his children stories, and where, during the last days of his life he had rested with his little family gathered about him, Larry could stand it no longer. He felt the hot scalding tears come to his eyes, and ran out behind the big red barn, where he sobbed out his grief all alone.

He covered his face with his hands and, as he thought of the happy days that seemed to be gone forever, his grief grew more intense. All at once he heard a voice calling:

“Hello, cry-baby!”

At first Larry was too much occupied with his troubles to pay any attention. Then someone called again:

“Larry Dexter cries like a girl!”

Larry looked up, to meet the laughing gaze of a boy about his own size and age, with bright red hair and a face much covered with freckles.

“I’m not a cry-baby!” Larry exclaimed.

“You be, too! Didn’t I see you cryin’?”

“I’ll make you cry on the other side of your mouth, Chot Ramsey!” Larry exclaimed, making a spring for his tormentor.

Chot doubled up his fists. To do him credit he had no idea that Larry was crying because he felt so badly at the prospect of leaving the farm that had been his home for many years. Chot was a good-hearted boy, but thoughtless. So, when he saw one of his playmates weeping, which act was considered only fit for girls, Chot could not resist the temptation to taunt Larry.

“Do you want t’ fight?” demanded Chot.

“I’ll punch you for calling me names!” exclaimed Larry, his sorrow at the sale of his father’s armchair dispersed at the idea of being laughed at and called a cry-baby.

“You will, hey?” asked Chot. “Well, I dare you to touch me!”

“I’ll make you sing a different tune in a minute!” cried Larry, rushing forward.

Then, like two game roosters, both wishing to fight, yet neither desiring to begin the battle, the boys faced each other. Their eyes were angry and all tears had disappeared from Larry’s face.

“Will you knock a chip off my shoulder?” demanded Chot.

“Sure,” replied Larry.

Chot stooped down, found a little piece of wood and carefully balanced it on the upper part of his arm.

“I dare you to!” he taunted.

This time-honored method of starting hostilities was not ignored by Larry. He sprang forward, and with a quick motion sent the fragment of wood flying through the air. Then he doubled up his fists, imitating the example Chot had earlier set, and stood ready for the fracas.

But at that instant, when, in another second Chot and Larry would have been involved in a rough-and-tumble encounter, James, Larry’s little brother, came running around the corner of the barn. He seemed greatly excited.

“Larry! Larry!” he exclaimed. “They’re sellin’ my nice old rockin’ horse, an’ my high chair what I used to have when I was a baby! Please stop ’em, Larry!”

Larry lost all desire to fight. He didn’t mind if all the boys in Campton called him cry-baby. He had too many sorrows to mind that.

“Don’t worry, Jimmie,” he said to the little fellow. “I’ll buy you some new ones.”

But little James was not to be comforted, and burst into a flood of tears. Chot, who had looked on in some wonder at what it was all about, for he did not understand that the household goods were being sold, unclosed his clenched fists. Underneath a somewhat rough exterior he had a warm heart.

“Say,” he began, coming up awkwardly to Larry, “I didn’t know you was bein’ sold out. I—I didn’t mean t’ make fun of ye. I—I was only foolin’ when I said ye was a cry-baby. Ye can have my best fishhook, honest ye can!”

“Thanks, Chot,” replied Larry, quick to feel the change of feeling. “I couldn’t help crying when I saw some of the things dad used to have going under the hammer. But I feel worse for mother and the others. I can stand it.”

“Are ye goin’ away from here?” asked Chot, for that anyone should leave Campton, where he had lived all his life, seemed too strange a thing to be true.

“I think we will go to New York,” replied Larry. “Mother’s sister lives there. I expect to get some work, and help support the folks.”

“I wish I was goin’ off like that!” exclaimed Chot. “They could sell everything in my house, an’ everything I’ve got, except my dog, if they’d let me go t’ New York.”

“You don’t know when you’re well off,” spoke Larry, who, in the last few months, under the stress of trouble, had become older than his years indicated.

By this time James, who saw a big yellow butterfly darting about among the flowers which grew in an old-fashioned garden below the barn, rushed to capture it, forgetting his troubles. Larry, whose grief-stricken mood had passed, returned to the house, to find it a place of confusion.

Men and women were in almost every room, going through and looking at the different articles. The loud voice of the auctioneer rang out, and Larry felt another pang in his heart as he saw piece after piece of furniture being knocked down to the highest bidder.

The boy found his mother in the bedroom, where she had sought a quiet place to rest.

“Have you really made up your mind to go to New York, mother?” Larry asked.

“I think it is the best thing to do,” was the answer. “We can stay with your aunt Ellen until I can find some work to do.”

“Are you going to work, mother? I hate to think of it. I’ll work for you.”

“I know you will do what you can,” replied Mrs. Dexter, “but I’m afraid boys do not earn much in big cities, so we will need all we both can get. It is going to be a hard struggle.”

“Don’t worry!” exclaimed Larry, assuming a cheerfulness he did not feel. “It will all come out right, somehow, you see if it doesn’t.”

“I hope so,” sighed Mrs. Dexter.

The auctioneering of the goods went on rapidly, and, toward the close of the afternoon, all that were not to be kept were disposed of. Mr. Rollinson cried his last “Going! Going! Gone!” brought his hammer down for the last time with a loud bang, and then announced that the sale was over.

“Where’s your mother, Larry?” he asked of the boy.

“I’ll call her.”

In a few minutes Larry had brought Mrs. Dexter to where the deputy sheriff waited for her in the parlor.

“Wa’al, everthing’s sold,” Mr. Rollinson began. “Didn’t bring as much as I cal’lated on, but then ye never can git much at a forced sale.”

“How much will I have left after all expenses are paid?” asked Mrs. Dexter.

“Allowin’ for everything,” said the auctioneer, figuring up on the back of an envelope, “you’ll have jest four hundred and three dollars and forty-five cents, the odd cents bein’ for some pictures.”

“It is very little to begin life over again on,” said Mrs. Dexter.

“But it’s better than nothin’,” said Mr. Rollinson, who seldom looked on the dark side of things. “Now I made the sale of these household things dependent on you. You can stay here two weeks if ye want t’, an’ nothin’ will be taken away. Them as bought it understands it.”

“I would like t’ get away as soon as possible,” said the widow.

“Wa’al, there’s nothin’ t’ hinder ye.”

“Then I shall start for New York day after to-morrow.”

“All right, Mrs. Dexter. I’ll settle up th’ accounts an’ have all th’ money ready by then.”

Mr. Rollinson was as good as his word. On the third day after the sale, having written to her sister that she was coming, but not waiting for a reply, Mrs. Dexter, with Larry, Lucy, Mary and James, boarded a train for the big city where they were all hoping their fortunes awaited them. Little James was full of excitement. He was sure they were going at last to the end of the rainbow. Mary was delighted with the new and strange sights along the way. Larry was very thoughtful. As for Lucy her spine hurt her so that she got very little enjoyment from the trip. But she did not say anything about it, for fear of worrying her mother.

It was a long journey, but it came to an end at last. The train reached Hoboken, on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River, and, though somewhat bewildered by the lights, the noise and confusion, Larry managed to learn which ferryboat to take to land them nearest to his aunt’s house, who lived on what is called the “East Side” of New York.

The trip across the river on the big boat was a source of much delight to the younger children, but Mrs. Dexter was too worried to be interested. Lucy was very tired, but Larry kept up his spirits.

Once landed in New York, in the evening, the confusion, the noise, the shouts of the cabmen, the rattle of the cars, the clanging of gongs and the ringing of bells, was so great that poor Mrs. Dexter, who had been so long used to the quiet of the country, felt her head ache.

By dint of many inquiries Larry found out which car to take and, marshaling his mother and the children ahead of him, he directed them where to go. A long ride brought them to the street where Mrs. Ralston lived.

Here was more confusion. The thoroughfare swarmed with children, and the noise was almost as great as down at the ferry. A man directed the travelers to the house, which was an apartment or tenement one, inhabited by a number of families. Larry, his mother, and the children climbed the stairs to the third floor, where Mrs. Ralston lived. A knock on the door brought a woman who was surprised at her visitors.

“Does Mrs. Ralston live here?” asked Larry, thinking he might have made a mistake.

“She did, but she moved away yesterday,” was the answer.

“Moved away?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear? Her husband was killed in a street-car accident a few days ago, and after the funeral Mrs. Ralston said she could not afford to keep these rooms. So she moved away. I came in last night. Are you relatives of hers?”

“I am her sister,” said Mrs. Dexter, and then, at the news of Mr. Ralston’s death, coming on top of all the other troubles, the poor woman burst into tears.

CHAPTER III
LOOKING FOR WORK

“Now there, don’t you worry one mite,” said the woman who had come to the door. “I know jest how you feel. Come right in. We haven’t much room, but there’s only my husband, and he can sleep on the floor to-night. I’ll take care of you until you can find some place to stay. Bring the children in. Well, if there isn’t a little fellow who’s jest the image of my little Eddie that died,” and the good woman clasped James in her arms and hugged him tightly.

“I’m afraid we’ll be too much trouble for you,” spoke Larry, seeing that his mother was too overcome to talk.

“Not a bit of it,” was the hearty reply. “Come right along. I was jest gittin’ supper, an’ there’s plenty for all of you. Come in!”

Confused and alarmed at the sudden news, and hardly knowing what she did, Mrs. Dexter entered the rooms where she had expected to find her sister. She was almost stunned by the many troubles coming all at once, and was glad enough to find any sort of temporary shelter.

“I’m Mrs. Jackson,” the woman went on. “We’re a little upset, but I know you won’t mind that.”

“No indeed,” replied Mrs. Dexter. “We are only too glad to come in.”

The apartment, which consisted of four small rooms, was in considerable confusion. Chairs and tables stood in all sorts of positions, and there were two beds up.

“We’ll manage somehow,” said Mrs. Jackson. “My goodness! The potatoes are burning!” and she ran to the kitchen, where supper was cooking.

While she was busy over the meal her husband came in, and, though he was much surprised to see so many strangers in the house, he quickly welcomed them when his wife explained the circumstances. Supper was soon ready, and the travelers, except Mrs. Dexter, ate with good appetites. Then, after she had told something of her troubles it was decided that the two younger children should sleep in a bed with their mother. Lucy shared Mrs. Jackson’s room, and Larry and Mr. Jackson had beds made up on the floor in the parlor.

“We’ll pretend we’re camping out,” said Mr. Jackson. “Did you ever camp, Larry?”

“Sometimes, with the boys in Campton,” was the reply. “But we never stayed out all night.”

“I have when I was a young man,” said Mr. Jackson. “I used to be quite fond of hunting.”

Larry was tired enough to fall off to sleep at once, but, for a time, the many unusual noises bothered him. There was an elevated railroad not far off, and the whistle of the trains, the buzz and hum of the motors, kept him awake. Then, too, the streets were full of excitement, boys shouting and men calling, for it was a warm night, and many stayed out until late.

At length, however, the country boy fell asleep, and dreamed that he was engineer on a ferryboat which collided with an elevated train, and the whole affair smashed into a balloon and came shooting earthward, landing with a thump, which so startled Larry that he awoke with a spring that would have rolled him out of bed had he not been sleeping on the floor.

It was just getting daylight, and Larry at first could not recall where he was. Then he sat up, and his movement awakened Mr. Jackson.

“Is it time to get up?” asked the latter.

“I—I don’t know,” said Larry.

Mr. Jackson reached under his pillow, drew out his watch, and looked at the time.

“Guess I’d better be stirring if I want to get to work to-day,” he remarked. Then he began to dress and Larry did likewise. Mrs. Jackson was already up, and breakfast was soon served.

“Make yourselves at home,” was Mr. Jackson’s remark, as he left the house to go to the office where he was employed.

Mrs. Dexter insisted on helping Mrs. Jackson with the housework, and, while the two women were engaged Mary and James went down to the street to see what, to them, were many wonderful sights. Lucy, whose spine hurt her very much because of the long journey, remained in bed, and Larry made himself useful by going to the store for Mrs. Jackson, after receiving many cautions from his mother not to get lost in New York.

Mrs. Dexter was worrying over what she should do. She wanted to find her sister, but she realized that if Mr. Ralston was dead his widow would not be in a position to give even temporary shelter to Mrs. Dexter and her family. She knew her sister must have written to her, but the letter had probably reached Campton after Mrs. Dexter had left.

“Why don’t you take a few rooms in this house?” suggested Mrs. Jackson. “There are some to be had cheap on the floor above, and it’s a respectable place. Then you will have time to hunt up your sister. Maybe the janitor knows where she moved to.”

“I believe I will do that,” said the widow. She knew what little money she had would not last long and she wanted to make a home for her children where they could stay while she went out to work.

When Larry returned Mrs. Dexter talked the matter over with him, for she had come to depend on her son very much of late. The matter was decided by their engaging four rooms on the floor above. They were unfurnished except for an attractive gas range on which cooking could be done.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know how to work it,” said Mrs. Dexter.

“I know,” said Larry. “Mrs. Jackson showed me this morning.”

From a secondhand store some beds, a table, and a few chairs were purchased, and thus, on a very modest scale, compared with their former home, the Dexters began housekeeping in New York.

They ate supper in their new rooms that night. The younger children were delighted, but Mrs. Dexter could not but feel that it was a poor home compared to the one she had been compelled to leave. Larry saw what was troubling his mother.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll soon be working and we will have a better place.”

“I wish I was strong enough to work,” said Lucy in a low tone, her eyes filling with tears as she thought of her helplessness.

“Don’t you wish anything of the kind!” exclaimed Larry. “I’m going to work for all of us.”

He made up his mind to start out the first thing in the morning and hunt for a job. He carried this plan out. After a simple breakfast which was added to by some nice potatoes and meat which Mrs. Jackson sent up, Larry hurried off.

“Be very careful,” cautioned his mother. “Don’t let anyone steal your pocketbook.”

Larry thought a thief would not make a very good haul, as he only had twenty-five cents in it, but he did not say so to his mother.

The boy did not know where to start to look for work. He had had no experience except on a farm, and there is not much call for that sort of labor in the city. Still he was strong, quick, and willing, and, though he didn’t know it, those qualities go a great way in any kind of work.

Larry started out from the apartment house, and walked slowly. He had the address of his new home written down, in case he got lost, but he determined to walk slowly, note the direction of the streets, and so acquaint himself with the “lay-out” of the big city.

He had two plans in mind. One was to go along the streets looking for a sign “Boy Wanted.” The other was to look at the advertisements in the newspapers. He resolved to try both.

Purchasing one of the big New York daily newspapers, which bore on the front page the name The Leader, Larry turned to the page where the dealer who sold it to him had said he would find plenty of want advertisements. There were a number of boys wanted, from those to run errands to the variety who were expected to begin in a wholesale house at a small salary and work their way up. In nearly every one were the words “experience necessary.”

Now Larry had had no experience, and he felt that it would be useless to try the places where that qualification was required. He marked several of the advertisements that he thought might provide an opening for him, and asked the first policeman he met how to get to the different addresses.

The bluecoat was a friendly one, who had boys of his own at home, and he kindly explained to Larry just how to get to the big wholesale and retail places that needed lads.

But luck seemed to be against Larry that day. At every place he went he was told that he was just too late.

“You’ll have to get up earlier in the morning if you want to get a job,” said one man where he inquired. “There were ten boys here before breakfast after this place. This is a city where you can’t go to sleep for very long.”

Larry was beginning to think so. He had tried a number of places that advertised, without success, when he saw a sign hanging out in front of a shoe store. It informed those who cared to know that a boy was needed.

Larry made an application. Timidly he asked the proprietor of the store for work.

“I hired a boy this morning about seven o’clock,” was the reply.

“Your sign is out yet,” spoke Larry.

“I forgot to bring it in,” said the man.

He did not seem to think it minded that he had caused disappointment to one lad, and might to others. Larry walked from the place much discouraged.

CHAPTER IV
LARRY AND THE REPORTER

It was now noon, and Larry, who had a healthy boy’s appetite, began to feel hungry. He had never eaten in one of the big city restaurants, and he felt somewhat timid about going in. Besides, he had only a quarter, and he thought that he could get very little for that. He also felt that he had better save some of the money for car-fare, and so he made up his mind that fifteen cents was all he could afford for dinner.

He walked down several streets before he saw a restaurant that seemed quiet enough for him to venture in.

The place was kept by an old German, and while it was neat and clean did not seem to be very prosperous, as Larry was the only customer at that particular hour.

“Vat you want, boy?” asked the old man, as Larry entered. “I don’t have noddings to gif away to beggars. I ain’t buying noddings. You had better git out.”

“I’m not selling anything and I’m not a beggar,” said Larry sharply. “I came in here to buy a meal,—er—that is a small one,” he added as he thought of his limited finances.

“Ach! a meal, eh!” exclaimed the German, smiling instead of frowning. “Dot’s different alretty yet! Sid down! I have fine meals!”

“I guess I only want something plain,” spoke Larry. “A cup of coffee and some bread and butter.”

“We gif a plate of soup, a piece of meat, coffee und rolls yet by a meal,” said the restaurant keeper, and Larry wondered how much such a meal would cost. “It’s fifteen cents alretty,” the German went on, and Larry breathed a sigh of relief, for he was very hungry.

He had gone, by chance, into one of the cheap though good restaurants of New York, where a few cents buys plenty of food, though it is not served with as much style as in more expensive places.

The restaurant keeper motioned Larry to sit down at one of the oilcloth-covered tables, and then, having brought a glass of water, hurried away. Soon his voice was heard giving orders, and in a little while he came back, bringing a bowl of hot soup. Larry thought he had never tasted anything so fine.

By this time several other persons had come into the place and the German was kept busy filling orders. A young woman came out from the rear of the shop to help him and she served Larry with the rest of his meal. When he had finished he was given a red square of pasteboard, with the figures “15” on it, and he guessed that this was his meal check and that he was to pay at the desk, over which a fat woman presided. It was near the door, and walking up to it Larry laid down his quarter, getting his ten cents in change and going out.

He felt that he was getting on in the world, since he had eaten all by himself in a public restaurant, and he was encouraged now to go on with his search for work. A meal often puts a strong heart into a man, or boy either, for that matter.

“Now for a job!” exclaimed Larry as he started off briskly.

He consulted the paper which he still had and went to several places that had advertised. But that day must have brought forth an astonishing crop of boys out of work, or else all places were quickly filled, for at every establishment where Larry called he was told that there was no need for his services.

Signs of “Boy Wanted” became “as scarce as hen’s teeth,” Larry said afterward, which are very scarce indeed, as no one ever saw a hen with teeth. About four o’clock in the afternoon he found himself at the junction of Fifth Avenue and Broadway, where the big Flatiron Building, as it is called, stands. Larry had walked several miles and he was tired and discouraged.

The day, which had been pleasant when Larry started out, had become cloudy, and a dark bank of clouds rolling up in the west indicated that a thunderstorm was about to break. As Larry stood there, amid all the bustle and excitement of the biggest city in the United States, he felt so lonely and worried that he did not know what to do. He thought of his mother and the children at home, and wondered whether he would ever get work so that he could take care of them.

Suddenly, from out of the western sky, there came a dazzling flash of lightning. It was followed by a crashing peal of thunder, and then the storm, which had been gathering for some time, burst. There was a deluge of rain, and people began running for shelter.

Larry looked about, and, seeing that many were making for the open doorway of the Flatiron Building, on the Fifth Avenue side, ran in that direction. He had hardly reached the friendly shelter when there came a crash that sounded like the discharge of a thirteen-inch gun, and a shock that seemed to make the very ground tremble.

At the same time Larry felt a queer tingling in the ends of his fingers, and several persons near him jumped.

“That struck near here!” a man at his side exclaimed.

“Guess you’re right,” another man said. “Lucky we’re in out of the wet.”

By this time the rain was coming down in torrents, and several more persons crowded into the lobby of the big building. Larry stayed near the door, for he liked to watch the storm and was not afraid.

Suddenly, down the street, there sounded a shrill whistle, mingled with a rumbling and a clang of bells.

“It’s a fire!” cried several.

“Lightning struck!” exclaimed one or two.

“It was that last smash!” said the man Larry had noticed first. “I thought it did some damage. Here come the engines!”

Up Fifth Avenue dashed the steamers, hose carts, and hook-and-ladder wagons.

“There’s the fire! In that building across the street!” someone said.

Larry looked and saw, coming out of the top story of a big piano warehouse on the opposite side of Fifth Avenue, a volume of black smoke. A number of men, unmindful of the rain, ran out to see the firemen work, and after a little hesitation Larry, who did not mind a wetting, followed.

It was the first time he had ever seen a fire in a big city, and he did not want to miss it. He worked his way through the crowds that quickly gathered until he was almost in front. There he held his place, not minding the rain, which was still falling hard, though not as plentifully as at first.

He saw the firemen run out long lengths of hose, attach them to the steamers, which had already started to pump, and watched the ladder men run out the long runged affairs up which they swarmed to carry the hose to the top stories, where the lightning had started the fire.

Then the water tower was brought into play. Under the power of compressed air the long slender pole of latticed ironwork rose high, carrying several lengths of hose with it. Then the nozzle was pointed toward the top windows, and soon a powerful stream of water was being sent in on the flames, that were making great headway among wood and shavings in the piano place.

The street was filled with excited men who were running back and forth. Many of them were persons who had come from near-by buildings to see the fire. Some were from the burning building, trying to save their possessions. The firemen themselves were the coolest of the lot, and went about their tasks as if there was nothing unusual the matter. Soon the police patrol dashed up and the blue-coats piled out and began to establish fire lines. Larry, like many others, was forced to get back from the middle of the street.

The boy, however, managed to keep his position in the front rank. He watched with eager eyes the firemen at work, and never thought how wet he was.

“It’s going to be a bad blaze,” remarked a man near Larry. “The fire department’s going to have its hands full this time.”

It certainly seemed so, for flames were spouting from all the windows on the top story and the one below it. More engines dashed up, and the excitement, noise, and confusion grew.

In front of Larry a big policeman was standing, placed there by the sergeant in charge of the reserves to maintain the fire lines. The officer had his back toward the crowd, and enjoyed a good vantage point from which to watch the flames. A young fellow, with his coat collar and trousers turned up, and carrying an umbrella, worked his way through the crowd until he was beside Larry.

“Let me pass, please,” he said, and then, slipping under the rope which the police had stretched, he was about to pass the policeman and get closer to the fire.

“Here, come back, you!” the officer exclaimed.

“It’s all right; I’m a reporter from the Leader,” said the young fellow, and he turned, showing a big shining metal star on his coat.

“Go ahead,” spoke the policeman. “You’ll have a good story, I’m thinking.”

“Anybody hurt?” asked the reporter, pausing to ask the first question that a newspaper man puts when he gets to a fire.

“Wouldn’t wonder. Saw the Roosevelt Hospital ambulance taking a man away when we came up. Jumped from the roof, I heard.”

“Gee! I’ll have to get busy! Say, it ain’t doin’ a thing but rain, is it? I can’t take notes and hold my umbrella too, and I certainly hate to get wet. I wish I had a kid to manage the thing for me.”

“I’ll hold the umbrella for you,” volunteered Larry, quick to take advantage of the situation, and realizing that, by aiding the reporter, who seemed to be a sort of favored person at fires, he might see more of the blaze.

“All right, kid, come along,” spoke the newspaper man, and, at a nod from the policeman to show it was all right, Larry slipped under the rope and followed the reporter, who made off on a run toward the burning building. Many men wished they were in Larry’s place.

“Come on, youngster. What’s your name?” asked the reporter of Larry.

The boy told him.

“Mine’s Harvey Newton,” volunteered the newspaper man. “We’ll have to look lively. Here, you hold the umbrella over me, while I make a few notes.”

Larry did so, screening the paper which the reporter drew from his pocket as much as possible from the rain. Mr. Newton, who, as Larry looked at him more closely, appeared much older than he had at first, made what looked like the tracks of a hen, but which were in reality a few notes setting down the number of the building, the height, the size, the location of the fire. Then the reporter jotted down the number of engines present, a few facts about the crowd, the way the police were handling it, and something of how the firemen were fighting the blaze.

“This is better than getting wet through,” Mr. Newton said, as he returned his paper to his pocket and waited for new developments.

“Say, why don’t you bring the city editor out with you when you cover fires?” asked another reporter, from a different paper, addressing Mr. Newton, and noticing Larry’s occupation.

“I would if he’d come,” replied Mr. Newton. “Don’t you wish you had an umbrella and a rain-shield bearer?”

“Don’t know but what I do,” rejoined the other, who was soaking wet. “Say, this is a corker, ain’t it? Got much?”

“Not yet. Just arrived.”

Suddenly, with a report like that of a dynamite blast, the whole top of the building seemed to rise in the air. An explosion of oils and varnishes used on pianos had occurred. For an instant there was deep silence succeeding the report. Then came cries of fear and pain, mingled with the shouts of men in the fiercely burning structure.

“I’ll need help on this story!” exclaimed Mr. Newton. “I wonder—— Say, Larry,” he went on, turning to the boy, “can you use a telephone?”

“Yes,” replied Larry, who had used one several times at Campton.

“Then call up the Leader office. The number’s seventeen hundred and eighty-four. Ask for the city editor, and tell him Newton said to send down a couple of men to help cover the fire. Run as if you were in a race!”

CHAPTER V
LARRY SECURES WORK

Larry handed over the umbrella and darted toward the sidewalk. He wiggled his way through the crowd, and went back to the lobby of the Flatiron Building, where he had noticed a telephone booth. Dashing inside he took off the receiver, and gave central the number of the Leader office. Then the girl in the exchange, after making the connection, told him to drop ten cents in the slot, for the telephone was of the automatic kind. In a few seconds Larry, in a somewhat breathless voice, was talking with the city editor of one of New York’s biggest newspapers.

“What’s that?” Larry heard the voice at the other end of the wire ask. “Newton told you to call me up? Who are you? Larry Dexter, eh? Well, what is it? Big fire, eh? Explosion? Fifth Avenue and Broadway? All right. I’ll attend to it.”

Then, before the city editor hung up the receiver of his instrument Larry heard him call in sharp tones:

“Smith, Robinson! Quick! Jump up to that fire and help Newton. Telephone the stuff in! We’ll get out an extra if it’s worth it!”

Then came a click that told that the connection was cut off, and Larry knew that help for his friend, the reporter, was on the way.

The boy hurried from the booth and ran again toward the crowd that was watching the fire. There were more people than ever now on the scene, but Larry managed to make his way through them to where the same policeman stood that had let himself and the reporter through the lines once before. Larry resolved to find his new friend. He slid close up to the officer.

“I’m helping Mr. Newton, the reporter for the Leader,” the boy said to the bluecoat.

The policeman looked down, recognized Larry, and said:

“All right, youngster, go ahead. Only get a fire badge next time or I’ll have to shut you out.”

But Larry was not worrying about the next time. He was rejoicing that he had gained admittance through the lines, and was close to the fire, which was now burning furiously.

More engines arrived with the sending in of the third alarm, and several ambulances were on the scene, as a number of men had been hurt in the explosion. Within the space made by the ropes there was plenty of room to move about, but there was much confusion. Larry spied Mr. Newton as close to the blaze as the reporter could get. Then he saw him dart over to an ambulance to which they had carried a wounded man.

Larry ran after his new friend, and found him getting the name of the injured piano worker, who was badly burned. The poor fellow was being swathed in cotton and oil by the ambulance surgeon, but the reporter did not seem to think of this. He asked the man for his name and address, got them, and jotted them down on his paper, which was now quite wet, since he had furled the umbrella.

“Back on the job, eh?” questioned Mr. Newton, stopping a moment in his rush to notice Larry. “Did Mr. Emberg say he’d send me some help?”

“Mr. Emberg?” asked Larry.

“Yes. The city editor you telephoned to?”

“Oh yes, I heard him tell someone to ‘jump out on the fire.’”

“Then they’ll come. Now, youngster, let’s see—what’s your name? Oh yes,—Larry. Well, I’m going to have my hands full now. Never mind about holding the umbrella. But drop in the Leader office and see me some day, say about five o’clock in the afternoon, after we go to press.”

“All right,” said Larry, dimly wondering how he was to get home, since he had spent his last ten cents for the telephone. But Mr. Newton was thoughtful to remember that item, and taking a quarter from his pocket he handed it to Larry.

“That’s for the message and your trouble,” he said.

Larry was glad enough to take it, though he would have been satisfied with ten cents.

“Don’t forget to call and see me!” said Mr. Newton.

The next instant there came loud cries of warning, and looking up Larry saw the whole upper front of the building toppling outward, and ready to fall over.

“Back! Back for your lives!” cried police and firemen in a shrill chorus.

Larry turned and ran, as did scores of others who were in the path of the crumbling masonry. A moment later the crash came. Then followed a rush of the frightened crowd, in which Larry was borne from his feet and carried along, until he found himself two blocks from the fire.

He turned to make his way back to within the fire lines, but found it too hard a task, as the crowd was now enormous. Then he decided to give it up as a bad job, and go home. Inquiry of a policeman showed him which car to take, and an hour later he was in the small apartment, where he was met by his mother and the children, who were much alarmed over his absence.

“No luck, mother,” Larry said, in answer to a look from Mrs. Dexter. “But I earned fifteen cents, anyhow, by helping at a fire.”

“Helping at a fire?”

Then Larry told his experience to the no small wonderment of them all.

“Maybe Mr. Newton will help me get a job,” he said hopefully.

“I wish he would,” said Mrs. Dexter. “I have some work to do, Larry,” she added.

“You, mother?”

“Yes, a lady on the floor above does sewing for a factory. It happened that one of the women who works in the place is sick, and our neighbor thought of me. I went to the shop, and I got something to do.”

“But I don’t like to have you work in a shop, mother,” objected Larry.

“I am to do the sewing at home,” went on Mrs. Dexter. “I cannot earn much, but it is better than nothing, and it may improve in time.”

“Maybe I can get a job diggin’ gold somewhere,” put in James. “If I do I’ll give you a million dollars, mommer.”

“I’m sure you will,” said his mother, giving him a hug.

“Maybe I could sew some,” spoke Lucy, from the chair where she was sitting, propped up in cushions.

“I’d like to see us let you!” exclaimed Larry. “You just wait, I’ll get a job somehow!”

But, though he spoke boldly, the boy was not so certain of his success. He was in a big city, where thousands are seeking work every hour, and where opportunities to labor do not go long unappropriated. But Larry was hopeful, and, though he worried somewhat over the prospect of the little family coming to grief in New York, he had not given up yet, by any means, for this was not his way.

Late that night Larry went out and bought a copy of the Leader. On the front page, set off by big headlines, was the story of the fire and explosion. The boy felt something of a part ownership in the account, and was proud to think he had helped, in some small measure, to provide such a thrilling tale.

For the fire proved a disastrous one, in which three men were killed and a number seriously hurt. The papers, for two days thereafter, had more stories about the blaze, and there was some talk of an investigation to see who was responsible for having so much oil and varnish stored in the place, which, it was decided by all, was the cause of the worst features of the accident.

During those two days Larry made a vain search for work. But there never seemed to be such a small number of positions and so many boys to fill them.

The third day, after a fruitless tramp about the city, Larry found himself down on Park Row, near the Post Office. He looked at one of the many tall buildings in that locality, and there staring him in the face, from the tenth story of one, were the words:

New York Leader.

“That’s my paper,” Larry thought with a sense of pride. Then the idea came to him to go up and see Mr. Newton, the reporter. It was nearly five o’clock, and this was the hour Mr. Newton had mentioned. Larry did not exactly know why he was going in to see the reporter. He had some dim notion of asking if there was not some work he might get to do.

At any rate, he reasoned, it would do no harm to try. Accordingly he entered the elevator, and asked the attendant on what floor the reporters of the Leader might be found.

“Twelfth,” was the reply, and then, before Larry could get his breath, he was shot upward, and the man called out:

“Twelfth floor. This express makes no stop until the twenty-first now.”

Larry managed to get out, somewhat dizzy by the rapid flight.

Before him the boy saw a door, marked in gilt letters:

City Room.

“I wonder where the country room is,” mused Larry. “I guess I’d feel more at home in a country room than I would in a city one.”

Then the door opened and several young men came out.

“Did you get any good stories to-day?” asked one.

“Pretty fair suicide,” was the answer. “How’d you make out?”

“Pretty decent murder, but they cleared it up too soon. No mystery in it.”

Rightly guessing that they were reporters, Larry approached them and asked for Mr. Newton. He was directed to walk into the city room, and there he saw his friend, with his feet perched upon a desk, smoking a pipe.

“Hello, youngster!” greeted Mr. Newton. “Been to any more fires?”

“No,” said Larry with a smile. “That one was enough.”

“I should say so. Well, you helped me considerable on that. We beat the other papers.”

“Beat them?” asked Larry.

“Yes, got out quicker, and had a heap better story, if I do say it myself. You helped some. Want to go down and see the presses run?”

“I came in to see if there was any chance of getting work,” answered Larry, determined to plunge at once into the matter that most interested him. “My mother and I and the rest of the family came to New York a few days ago, and I need work. Is there any chance at all of a job here?”

“Well, if that isn’t luck!” exclaimed Mr. Newton, without any apparent reference to Larry’s question. “Say,” he called to someone in the next room, “weren’t you asking me if I knew of someone who wanted to run copy, Mr. Emberg?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the city editor, coming out into the reporter’s room. “Why?”

“Nothing, only here’s a friend of mine who wants the job, that’s all,” said Mr. Newton, as if such coincidences happened every day.

“Ever run copy?” asked the city editor, after a pause.

“I—I don’t know,” replied Larry, wondering what sort of work it was.

“It’s like being an office boy in any other establishment,” said Mr. Newton. “You carry the stuff from the reporters’ desks to the editors’ and copy readers’, and you carry it from them,—that is, what’s left of it—to the tube that shoots it to the composing room.”

“I guess I could do it, I’m pretty strong,” replied Larry, whereat the two men laughed, though Larry could not see why.

“You’ll do,” said the city editor pleasantly. “I’ll give you a trial, anyhow. When can you come in?”

“Right now!” exclaimed Larry, hardly believing the good news was true.

“To-morrow will do,” said the editor with a smile. “We’re all through for to-day. Come in at eight o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“I will!” almost gasped Larry, and then, as the two men nodded a kind good-night, he sped from the room.

CHAPTER VI
LARRY MAKES AN ENEMY

Larry thought he would never get home that evening to tell the good news. He fairly burst into the room where his mother was sewing and cried out:

“Hurrah, mother! I’ve got a job!”

“Good, Larry!” exclaimed Mrs. Dexter. “I’m so glad. What is it?”

Talking so rapidly he could hardly be understood, Larry narrated all that had occurred on his visit to the newspaper office.

“I’m to go to work to-morrow morning,” he finished.

“Will they give you a thousand dollars, Larry?” asked little James, coming up to his brother.

“I’m afraid not, Jimmy. I really forgot to ask how much they pay, but it will be something for a start, anyhow.”

“Maybe they’ll let you write stories for the paper,” went on James, who was a great reader of fairy tales.

“Oh, wouldn’t that be fine!” spoke Lucy.

“They don’t have many stories in newspapers,” said Larry, who had begun to consider himself somewhat of an authority in the matter. “At least they call the things they print stories, for I heard Mr. Newton say he had a good story of the fire, but they’re not what we call stories. I wish I could get to writing, though; but I’m afraid I don’t know enough.”

“Why don’t you study nights?” suggested Lucy. “I’ll help you.”

“I believe I will,” replied Larry, for his sister had been very bright in her studies before the spinal trouble took her from school. “But first I want to see what sort of work I have to do. My, but I’m hungry!”

“We were waiting with supper for you,” said Larry’s mother. “I’ll get it right away.”

Then, while Mrs. Dexter set the table and started to serve the meal, Larry took little Mary on his knee and told her over again the story of the big fire he had seen, a tale which James also listened to with great delight. The little boy declared it was better than the best fairy story he had ever read.

Half an hour before the appointed time next morning Larry was at the office of the Leader. Neither the city editor, the copy readers, nor any of the reporters were on hand yet, but there were two boys in the room. At first they paid no attention to Larry, but stood in one corner, conversing. One of the boys, a rather thin chap, with a face that seemed older than it should have on a boy of his size, took out a cigarette and lighted it.

“If Mr. Emberg catches you, Peter, you’ll get fired,” cautioned the other fellow, who had a shock of light hair, blue eyes, and seemed a good-natured sort of chap.

“A heap I care for Emberg,” was Peter Manton’s reply. “I can get another job easy. The Rocket needs a good copy boy. Besides Emberg won’t be here for an hour,” and he began to puff on his cigarette.

Larry advanced further into the room, and, at the sound of his steps, the other boys turned quickly. Peter was the first to speak.

“Hello, kid,” he said rather familiarly, considering Larry was as old and about as large as himself. “What do you want?”

“I’m waiting for Mr. Emberg,” replied Larry.

“Lookin’ for a job?” sneered Peter. “If you are you can fade away. We got all the help we need. What right you got buttin’ in?”

“Mr. Emberg told me to come here and see him,” said Larry quietly, and then he sat down in a chair.

“Look a-here,” began Peter, crossing the room quickly and coming close to Larry, “if you think you can come in here and git a job over my head you’re goin’ to get left. Do you hear?”

Larry thought it best not to answer.

“I’ve a good mind to punch your face,” went on Peter, doubling up his fist. He seemed half inclined to put his threat into execution when the door suddenly opened and Mr. Newton walked into the city room.

“Hello, Larry!” he exclaimed cordially. “You’re on time, I see.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the new copy boy.

At the sight of the reporter Peter had dropped his cigarette to the floor and stepped on it. At the same time he slunk away from Larry, though the look in Peter’s face was not pleasant.

“Who’s been smoking cigarettes?” asked Mr. Newton, sniffing the air suspiciously. “Don’t you boys know the orders?”

While it was permitted for the men in the room to smoke there were stringent rules against the boys indulging in the habit.

“There was a feller come in to see the editor,” replied Peter. “He was smokin’ real hard. But he didn’t stay long. I guess that’s what you smell.”

Mr. Newton gave a quick look at Peter, and then at the still smouldering cigarette end on the floor. However, if he had any suspicions he did not mention them.

Several other reporters came in now, and there was much laughter and joking among them. Some had work to do on the stories they had been out on the night before, and soon half a dozen typewriters were clicking merrily.

Mr. Emberg arrived about half-past eight o’clock and began sending the men out on their different duties, or assignments as they are called in a newspaper office. He greeted Larry with a smile and told him to wait until the morning’s rush was over, when the lad would be told what his work was.

Larry was much interested in watching and listening to all that went on. He heard the men talking about fires, robberies, suicides, and political matters. The place seemed like a hive full of busy bees with men and boys constantly coming and going. Larry felt a thrill of excitement when he realized that he was soon to have a part in this.

In about half an hour, when most of the men had gone out to various places, some to hospitals, some to police stations, some to the courts, and some to fire headquarters, the room was comparatively quiet.

“Now then, you new boy—what’s your name?” began Mr. Emberg, motioning to Larry. “Oh yes, I remember it now, it’s Harry.”

“No, sir, it’s Larry,” corrected the new boy.

“Oh yes, Larry. Well, I’ll tell you what you are to do.”

Thereupon the city editor instructed Larry how, whenever he heard “Copy!” called, to hurry to the desk, get the sheets of paper on which the articles for the paper were written, and carry them to a room down the hall. There he was to put them in a sort of brass tube, or carrier, drop the carrier into a pipe, and pull a lever, which sent compressed air into the pipe and shot the tube of copy to the composing room. There it would be taken out and set up into type. But Larry’s duties, for the time, ended when he had put the copy in the tube.

There were many other little things to do, and errands to run, Mr. Emberg said, but Larry would pick them up in time.

“Now then, Peter,” called Mr. Emberg—“or never mind, I guess you had better do it, Bud,” to the tow-headed office boy. “You show Larry around a bit, so he’ll know where to go when I send him.”

“Come ahead,” said Bud with a smile.

As they passed Peter, who seemed to be sulking in a corner, Larry heard him utter:

“You wait, Larry, or whatever your name is, I’ll fix you for buttin’ in here. You’ll wish you’d never come.”

“Don’t mind him,” said Bud. “He’s afraid he’ll lose his job.”

“Why?” asked Larry.

“Oh, he’s made two or three bad mistakes here lately, and I guess he’s afraid they got you in his place. But don’t let that worry you, only look out for Pete, that’s all, or he may do something you won’t like.”

“I will,” replied Larry, as he followed his friend to learn something about the mysteries of a big newspaper office.

CHAPTER VII
THE MISSING COPY

Bud first showed Larry how to work the pneumatic or compressed-air tube. Around it stood several other boys who seemed to be quite busy. Now and then one would dash in with a bunch of paper, grab a tube, stuff the copy in, and yank the lever over. A hissing, as the imprisoned air rushed into the pipe, told that the copy was on its way to the composing room.

“Where are those boys from; other papers?” asked Larry.

“Gosh, no!” exclaimed Bud. “No boy from another paper would dare come in here; that is while he worked for another paper. We’d think he was trying to get wind of some exclusive story we had. Those boys are from the different departments. One carries copy from the state department, another from the sporting room, and another from the telegraph desk.”

Then Bud briefly explained that there were several editors on the paper. One took charge of all the news in the city, and this was Mr. Emberg. Another handled all the foreign news that came in over the telegraph. Still another took charge of all matters that happened in the state outside of the city and the immediate surrounding territory. Then there was the sporting editor, who looked after all such things as football and baseball games, racing, wrestling, and so on. Each editor had a separate room, and there were one or two boys in each department to carry copy to the tube room, whence it was sent up to the printers.

“But our room’s the best,” finished Bud, with an air of conscious pride.

Larry was shown where the offices of the different editors were, so that he would know where to go if sent with messages to them. He was also taken to the composing room.

There he stood for a while bewildered by the noise and seeming confusion. A score of typesetting machines were at work, clicking away while the men sat at the keyboards, which were almost like those of typewriters. Larry saw where the tubes with copy in them bounced from the air pipe into a box. From that they were taken to a table by a boy, whose face was liberally covered with printer’s ink.

There a man rapidly numbered them with a blue pencil, and gave the sheets out to the compositors.

“Sometimes you have to come up here for proofs of a story,” Bud explained. “Then go over to that man there,” pointing to a tall thin individual, “and repeat whatever Mr. Emberg or whoever sends you, says. You see there are several different kinds of type in the heads of a story and each story is called according to the kind of a head it has.”

“I’m afraid I’ll never learn,” said Larry, who was beginning to feel confused.

“Oh yes, you will. I’ll explain it all to you. You probably won’t have to go for proofs for several days. You’ll only have to carry copy.”

They stayed up in the composing room for some time, and every second Larry wondered more and more how out of so much seeming confusion any order could ever come.

Boys with long galleys, like narrow brass pans that corresponded in size to columns of the newspaper, and set full of type, were hurrying with them to a big machine where they were placed on a flat table, and a roller covered with ink passed over them. Then a boy placed a long narrow slip of paper on the inky type, passed another roller over it, and lifted off the paper.

“That’s what they calling pulling or taking a proof,” said Bud. “But come on now, we’ll go back to the city room and rush copy. I guess there’s some by this time.”

There was quite a bit, for a number of stories had been handed in by the reporters, had been looked over by Mr. Emberg, his assistant, or the copy readers, and were ready for the compositors. Peter had been kept busy running back and forth and was in no gentle humor.

“I’ll fix you for this,” muttered Peter to Larry and Bud. “I’ll get even for running off and letting me do all the work. You jest wait an’ see wot I do!”

He spoke in a low tone, for he did not want the city editor to hear.

“Cut it out,” advised Bud with a grin. “I was sent to show Larry about the plant and you know it. Besides, if you try any of your tricks I know something I can do.”

“What?” asked Peter.

“Who was smoking cigarettes?” asked Bud in a whisper.

“If you squeal on me I’ll—I’ll do you up brown,” threatened Peter.

“It will take two like you,” boasted Bud.

“Well, I can get somebody to help me,” sputtered Peter.

“Copy!” called Mr. Emberg at that instant, and, at a nod from Bud, Larry sprang forward to carry it to the tube. It was his first actual work in the newspaper office, and quite proud he felt as he put the story in the case and sent it up the pipe.

From then on all three boys were kept busy, for as the morning wore on several reporters came in with stories, long or short, that they had gathered on their various assignments, and these were quickly corrected and edited, and ready for the typesetters.

Back and forth, from the city room desk to the pneumatic tube, the three boys ran. Larry noticed that Peter was in the sulks and that he did not seem to care very much about doing the work. Once or twice he lagged down the hall instead of hurrying back from the tube after more copy as he should have done, once Mr. Emberg remarked sharply to him:

“Peter, if you don’t want to work here, there are lots of other boys I can get.”

“My foot hurts me,” whined the boy, as he limped slightly.

“Why didn’t you say so before?” inquired the city editor. “If it is very bad you can go home and come in to-morrow.”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as that,” replied Peter, fearing lest he should be found out in his deceit. “I guess I can stand it.”

Meanwhile Larry was kept on the jump. He soon got the knack of his duties and resolved to make himself as useful as possible. With this in view he kept close watch on the desk, and, as soon as he saw Mr. Emberg, the assistant city editor, or any of the readers, fold up copy, preparatory to handing it to one of the boys, Larry hurried up without waiting for the cry “Copy!”

“That’s the way to do it,” said Mr. Emberg encouragingly, as he noticed Larry’s remarkable quickness.

“Don’t be so fresh,” muttered Peter on one of these occasions, as he passed Larry in the long and deserted hall. “There’s no use rushin’ so, and the union won’t stand for it. I’ll punch your head if you don’t look out!”

“I’m going to do my work right, and I don’t care what you say!” exclaimed Larry. “And if there’s any head punching to be done, I can do my share!”

“Um,” grunted Peter. “I’ll get square with you all right!”

It was now noon, and the paper went to press for the first edition shortly after one o’clock. So there was considerable excitement and hurry in all the departments, to get the important news set up and ready to be printed.

Reporters were hurrying in and out, the readers and editors were using their pencils rapidly, correcting and changing copy, and the three boys in the city room were kept on the jump all the time.

Shortly before one o’clock a reporter came in all out of breath.

“Man—killed—himself—in—the—Post Office just—now!” he gasped.

“Quick!” shouted Mr. Emberg. “We’ve only got ten minutes to catch the edition. Write as fast as you can. Short paragraphs. Here, one of you boys bring me the sheets as fast as Mr. Steifert finishes them.”

The reporter sat down to a typewriter, rapidly inserted a piece of paper and began to click out copy so fast that Larry wondered how he could see the keys.

“I’ll carry the sheets to Mr. Emberg,” said Bud to Larry, “and you get ready to rush them to the tube.”

This was done. As soon as Mr. Steifert had one paragraph written he pulled it from the machine and handed it to Bud, who ran with it to the city editor. The latter quickly glanced at it, corrected one or two slight errors, and passed it over to Larry, who fairly raced down the hall.

When he came back another page was ready, and this was kept up until the story was all upstairs. Then Mr. Emberg proceeded to write a head for it and Larry carried that copy to the tube.

“Just made that in time,” said the city editor, as Larry came back. “Now, Mr. Steifert, get ready a better and longer story for the next edition. You can take a little more time.”

Matters became more quiet in the office after the first edition had gone to press. There were to be two more editions, and there still remained plenty of work to do. Once or twice Larry was sent to get proofs from the composing room and luckily he made no errors.

It was getting on toward four o’clock when the last edition was getting ready to close.

“Copy!” called Mr. Emberg, holding out a bunch of paper and not looking up to see who answered his summons.

Larry ran and grabbed it and sped down the hall. Halfway down he was met by Peter, who also had some papers in his hand.

“I’ll put that in the tube for you,” said Peter. “I’ve got some more to go in.”

At first Larry hesitated. Then, thinking perhaps Peter wanted to make up for his recent unkind remarks, Larry gave him the copy and returned to the city room.

A little later the big presses began thundering in the sub-cellar, and soon the first copies of the last edition were off and a boy brought several to the city room.

“Here! What’s this?” cried Mr. Emberg suddenly, after a hasty glance over the paper. “Where’s that story about Alderman Murphy?”

“I handed it to you,” said one of the reporters.

“I know you did, Reilly. I handled it and put a display head on it. It went up in time, but it isn’t in. Who took that copy?” he asked, turning to the three boys who stood to one side of the room. No one answered for a second or two.

“It was written on yellow paper,” went on Mr. Emberg.

“I—I did,” replied Larry, wondering what was going to happen.

“What did you do with it?”

“I—I gave it to Peter,” faltered Larry.

“You did not!” cried the other office boy, in an angry voice.

CHAPTER VIII
PETER IS DISCHARGED

“Yes, I did,” replied Larry firmly. “I started down the hall with it as soon as Mr. Emberg gave it to me. You stood near the tube with some other copy and you said you’d send mine up for me.”

“How about that, Peter?” asked Mr. Emberg.

“I—I don’t remember anything about it,” said Peter. “I sent up my own copy; that’s all I’m supposed to do.”

“No, it is not,” said the city editor. “You are supposed to do what we are all doing here, work for the interests of the paper, no matter in what way. Larry did wrong if he let anyone else take any copy that was intrusted to him. Never do it again, Larry. When you get copy put it in the tube yourself. Then you will be sure it goes upstairs.”

“But he asked me for it,” said the new boy, feeling quite badly over the matter.

“No matter if he did.”

“I didn’t do it. He’s just tryin’ to get out of it,” spoke Peter.

“We’ll soon see who’s to blame,” came from the city editor. “You boys come with me.”

Secure in the sense that he was right, Larry followed. As for Peter he would a good deal rather not have gone, only he dared not disobey. Up to the composing room Mr. Emberg led the two boys. There he asked the boy whose duty it was to take copy from the tubes whether he had received any on yellow paper, for it was on sheets of that hue that the missing story was written.

“No yellow copy came up this afternoon,” said the tube boy. “The last batch I took out was a story about the new monument, and that was all.”

“That’s the copy you took, Peter, about the same time I sent the story about Alderman Murphy up,” said Mr. Emberg.

“I don’t know nothin’ about no yellow copy,” said Peter sullenly.

“I’ll inquire in the copy room downstairs,” said the city editor. With the boys following him, he went to the apartment where the pipe was located, in which the copy was sent upstairs. It was the duty of one boy to remain here all the while the paper was going to press to see that the machinery was in order.

“Who sent up the last copy, Dudley?” asked Mr. Emberg.

“Peter Manton,” replied Dudley. “There was some other fellow that ran in the last minute, but Peter took the copy from him and said he’d send it up.”

“What kind of copy was it?” asked the city editor.

“On red—no—it was on yellow paper,” replied Dudley.

“And did you see Peter put it in the pipe?” asked Mr. Emberg.

“No, sir. I didn’t look at him closely. I had to turn on a little more compressed air then, and I was too busy to take much notice.”

“Peter, you never sent that copy up!” exclaimed the city editor suddenly, turning to the sulking office boy. “You are up to some trick. Tell me what you did with it.”

“I didn’t——” began Peter.

But Mr. Emberg, with a quick motion, leaned forward and tore open Peter’s coat. Out on the floor tumbled a number of yellow sheets of paper. Mr. Emberg picked some of them up.

“There’s the missing copy,” he said. “Peter, you can go downstairs, get what money is coming to you, and go. We don’t want you here any more.”

“All right,” growled Peter sullenly.

He turned to leave. As he passed Larry he muttered in a low turn:

“This is all your fault. Wait until I get a chance! I’ll pay you back all right, all right!”

Then, before Larry could answer, Peter shuffled down the hall. And that was the end of Peter on the Leader, though it was by no means the last Larry saw of him.

Thus the first day of Larry’s life on a big newspaper came to a close and it was with considerable pride that he started for home. He felt he had done well, though he had made one or two mistakes. He was a little worried about what pay he was going to get, and he had a little fear lest he might be paid nothing while learning.

His fears were set at rest, however, when, as he was going out of the door, Mr. Emberg called to him.

“Well, Larry, how do you like it?”

“First-rate,” said Larry heartily.

“I forgot to tell you about your money,” the city editor went on. “You will get five dollars a week to start, and, as you improve, you will be paid more. Perhaps you’ll become a reporter some day.”

“I’d like to, but I’m afraid I never can,” said the boy wistfully.

“Why not?”

“I haven’t a good enough education.”

“It doesn’t always take education to make a good reporter,” said Mr. Emberg kindly. “Some of our best men would never take a prize at school. Yet they have a nose for news that makes them more valuable than the best college educated chaps.”

“A nose for news?” asked Larry, wondering what sort of a nose that was.

“Yes; to know a good story when they hear about it, and know how to go about getting it. That’s what counts. I hope you’ll have a nose for news, Larry.”

“I hope so,” replied the boy, yet he did not have much anticipation.

He was thinking more about the five dollars he was to earn every week than about his prospects as a reporter. He knew the money would be much needed, and he resolved to do all he could to merit a raise.

There was much rejoicing in the humble home that night when Larry told about his salary. Mrs. Dexter also had good news, for the firm for which she sewed had given her a finer grade of work, at which she could earn more money.

“We’ll get along fine, mother,” said Larry.

“Ain’t you afraid that mean boy Peter will hurt you?” asked little James, who had listened to Larry’s recital of the discharge of the other office boy.

“No, I guess I can take care of myself,” said Larry, feeling of the muscles of his arm, which were not small for a lad of his age. “And how are you, Lucy?” the boy went on, going over to where his sister was propped up in a big chair.

“I think I’m a little better,” the girl said with a brave attempt at a smile. Yet a shadow of pain crossed her face, and Larry knew she was suffering but did not want to tell, so as to keep her mother from worrying.

“You wait,” whispered Larry. “When I get money enough I’m going to get you a big chair that you can wheel yourself around in. Then I’m going to have some big doctor cure you. You just wait, Lucy,” and he gave her hand a gentle pat.

“Thank you, Larry,” said his sister. Somehow it made the pain a little easier when her brother sympathized with her, and she resolved to be brave and say nothing at all of how she suffered.

That night, when all save Larry and his mother had gone to bed, Mrs. Dexter brought out a box of papers and began sorting them over.

“What are they, mother?” asked the boy.

“Old documents that are of no use,” said his mother. “I thought I would burn them up and get them out of the way. I need the box to keep my thread and sewing materials in.”

She began piling the papers up on the table, making two bundles; those she intended to keep and those she wanted to put in the fire.

“There’s a lot of old deeds,” she said. “I guess they might as well go, since we no longer own the property.”

Larry glanced at them. They were mostly for the farm up in Campton which the sheriff had sold. One document, however, caught Larry’s eye.

“Hello,” he said. “What’s this? ‘Property in the State of New York, in the locality known as the Bronx.’ I say, mother, what’s this?”

“Oh, that’s a deed to some land your father took a good many years ago in settlement of some money a man owed him. It’s no good though.”

“Why not?”

“Because your father had it looked up. It’s nothing but a piece of swamp land. He was swindled on that deal.”

“Maybe it will be good some day,” said Larry. “I heard some of the reporters talking in the office to-day about the Bronx. There’s a river there. It’s quite a ways out, and the reporters hate to be sent there on stories. But maybe some day, when New York grows bigger, the land will be valuable.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Mrs. Dexter with a sigh. “You might as well burn the deed up.”

“No, I’ll save it,” said Larry. “It will not take up much room, and I may find a use for it.”

“Very well,” spoke his mother. “But these other papers you had better destroy.”

Larry looked them over, and, seeing they all referred to the farm they had recently left, and which they no longer had a claim on, he tossed them into the fire. The other deed, however, he carefully put away. Though he did not know it, the time was coming when it would prove of great worth to him and his mother.

Larry reported early for work the next morning. He was more busy than the day before, and the calls of copy seemed constant. He ran back and forth until it seemed that his feet were chunks of lead and his legs like sticks of wood. Yet he did not flag, and more than once Mr. Emberg nodded pleasantly to him to show that he appreciated the boy’s attempts to please.

Of course Larry made mistakes. He sometimes got the wrong proofs and took the right ones to the wrong places. But he was good-natured when told of his errors, and more than one man on the paper, busy as they all were, took an interest in him, and did much to help him.

CHAPTER IX
LARRY GETS A STORY

There were few prouder boys in the big city of New York than Larry when, at the end of his first week, he carried home his wages. The five dollars seemed a small gold mine to him, and he handed the cash to his mother with the remark that some day it would be more.

“You’re doing very well,” said Mrs. Dexter. “I shall not worry now.”

“I’m goin’ to work to-morrow,” spoke James. “I can sell papers. I seen littler boys than me sellin’ ’em.”

“I guess we will not have to start you in right away,” spoke Larry. “There’s time enough.”

“Couldn’t you get me some work to do?” asked Lucy with a smile, as she sat propped up in the big chair. “I could direct envelopes or something.”

“You just get well and strong and maybe we’ll talk about work,” said Larry, for he could not bear to think of his sister suffering.

“I’m afraid I’ll never be any better,” said the girl a little sadly.

“Yes, you will!” exclaimed Larry, turning away to hide the tears in his eyes. “I read in our paper to-day of a big doctor that’s coming from Europe to cure people that have the same kind of spinal disease you have.”

“But it costs an awful lot of money,” sighed Lucy.

“I’ll earn it!” said Larry determinedly.

During those days came a letter for Mrs. Dexter which had been sent to Campton from New York and then returned to the metropolis. The communication was from her sister and told about Mrs. Ralston’s bereavement and stated that the widow had decided to pay an extended visit to some of her husband’s folks who lived in another state.

“I hope she finds a good home,” said Larry’s mother, and that evening penned a letter to Mrs. Ralston, telling of the changes that had occurred in the Dexter household.

Larry began his second week of work with better spirits than he had the first. He began to feel confidence in himself. Another boy had been hired to take Peter’s place and Larry lost some of the feeling of being the “cub” copy boy, as the newest arrival on a paper is called.

He was rapidly learning many things that were destined to be useful to him. He could go after proofs now and make no errors, for he had come to distinguish the different kinds of type in which the headings of the stories were printed. There were the big “horse heads,” with three lines of very black type. Then there were the ordinary “display heads,” of two lines, of not quite such heavy letters. Then came “lap” heads, smaller still, “twelve points,” or type about half an inch high, and so on down to the small single-line heads, that were put on only the least important articles.

Larry began to have some idea of the necessity of being quick and accurate. He saw that, even near last-edition time, when everything was on the rush, the reporters and editors kept cool, and, though they had to work fast, they made every motion count.

The boy came to admire the coolness of the veteran reporter who could write a story with a boy standing at his elbow grabbing each page of copy as it was finished and rushing it to the editor, and thence upstairs.

“I’m going to be a reporter,” Larry decided one day, when he had been on the paper three weeks. “I’m going to study and fix myself for a place on the Leader.”

He began to see the importance that a really good and conscientious reporter holds in a community. He heard the newspaper men telling of the well-known public men they interviewed, the events of the day they took part in, and all this fired his ambition to be one of the Leader’s reporters.

He spoke to his mother about it that evening and said he was going to attend night school.

“There’s a teacher in one of those schools who lives on the floor above,” said Mrs. Dexter. “I heard his wife talking to Mrs. Jackson the other day, and she mentioned it. His name is Professor Carlton.”

“I’m going up and ask him about it,” decided Larry, who, of late, had been getting in the habit of doing things quickly, as they did in the newspaper office.

Professor Carlton was at home, and Larry, after introducing himself, stated the object of his call.

“What do you want to study for?” asked the teacher.

“To be a reporter,” replied Larry.

“I’m afraid it will take more than study to make you that,” said Mr. Carlton. “You have to have a ‘nose for news’ I’m told.”

“I know,” said Larry, nodding gravely, “that’s what Mr. Emberg, the city editor, says.”

“Then you’re on a paper now?” asked Mr. Carlton.

“Only a copy boy,” replied Larry.

“Many a copy boy has risen to be a reporter, though,” was the teacher’s answer. “I hope you will. But about the evening schools. You see this is summer, and the schools do not start until September. That’s two months off.”

“I don’t want to wait as long as that,” said Larry. “I want to be earning more money as soon as I can.”

“Perhaps I can help you,” said the instructor, who had taken an interest in the lad. “I have little to do nights, and we might make a class of one, with you for the pupil and me for the teacher, say three evenings a week. You would learn more rapidly then, and be ready when the evening schools opened in the fall.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t pay for the lessons,” said Larry.

“Never mind about the pay,” said the professor. “I’ll be only too glad to help a boy that wants to help himself.”

So it was arranged. Larry had a good common school education, but there were many things he was ignorant of that the boys of his age, in the city, were instructed in. So, under the direction of Mr. Carlton he applied himself to his books evenings, and made good progress, everything considered.

“If I can only develop that ‘nose for news,’” Larry thought with a sigh. He imagined it was some magic gift that comes to only a favored few. And so, in the main, it does, but at heart every boy is a reporter, for if he doesn’t tell his chum or the family at home the different things he sees during the day he’s only half a boy. And telling the things one sees is, after all, the beginning of reporting, for that’s all a newspaper does, only on a larger scale.

Like many another thing that one wants very much and which often comes unexpectedly, Larry’s chance came when he had no idea it was so close at hand.

He had been on the Leader a month now and was getting well acquainted not only with the editors and men on the staff, but the different ways of doing things, from the time a reporter brought a story in until it came out in the paper.

One hot August morning as Larry was on his way to work, he saw quite a crowd at the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge, caused by a breakdown on one of the cars. He paused for a few minutes, as he was a little ahead of time. As he did so he noticed, on the outer edge of the throng, a handsomely dressed woman. In her hand she carried a large silver purse, through the open meshes of which could be seen a green roll of bills.

Suddenly a roughly dressed youth grabbed the purse, pulled it from the lady’s hand with a savage yank, and bolted down a side street.

“Thief! Robber! He’s stolen my money!” the woman cried.

Instantly the crowd forgot all about the breakdown on the bridge and raised a cry of:

“Stop thief!”

“There he goes!”

“Catch him!”

“Police!”

“Which way did he go?” asked a policeman, coming up on the run.

“Down there!” exclaimed Larry, pointing down a street that ran parallel with the bridge abutments.

The fleeing youth was running at top speed, but he made one mistake. He looked behind to see if anyone was after him, and did not see an ash barrel that stood in his path. He stumbled over this and went down in a heap, covered with cinders. He got up, however, before the policeman was near enough to grab him and started off again.

At that moment, however, from a side street there came a small cart, in charge of an Italian, and bearing a heap of peanuts and a roaster at full steam.

Before the thief could check his flight he had crashed, full tilt, into the Italian’s cart. Right into the midst of the pile of peanuts he went, upsetting the vehicle and landing with it on top of him in the middle of the street.

With a shrill cry the Italian threw himself upon the man he supposed had purposely brought his wares to grief, and thief and peanut vendor were in the midst of a fight when the policeman came rushing up, and grabbed his prisoner. The youth still held the purse, an odd-shaped affair, in his hand.

“I’VE GOT YOU! COME TO THE STATION HOUSE”

From Office Boy to Reporter

[Page 77]

“I’ve got you!” exclaimed the officer. “Come to the station house.”

“Not without a fight!” exclaimed the youth, aiming a blow at the officer.

The policeman drew his club, and it looked as if there would be a battle royal, when another officer came up and the two bluecoats soon subdued the youth. As they started to march him to the station house, in the basement of the city hall, which was near by, the Italian demanded to know who was going to pay for his peanuts.

“You can come to the sergeant and make a complaint against him if you like,” spoke the officer who had made the capture.

The Italian, leaving his cart in charge of a friend who happened along, trailed after the policemen and their captive. A big crowd gathered, and the woman whose purse had been stolen, and who was almost in hysterics over her loss, was located and invited to go to the police station to tell her story and make a charge against the thief.

Larry had been in the van the whole time, as had a score of other boys determined to see the thing through.

“This will make a good story or I’m mistaken,” he thought. “I’ll get all the particulars I can and tell Mr. Emberg. It’s something out of the ordinary too,” and though the affair might have been tragic, he could not help laughing as he thought of the fleeing youth covered first with ashes and then with peanuts.

A big throng trooped after the officers, and Larry was beginning to wonder how he was going to get into the police station to learn the names of the prisoner and the woman, for he knew the crowd would not be allowed to enter.

“I’ll run ahead and get in before they do,” thought Larry. “Then I’ll be there when they come in.”

So, taking a short cut, he reached the station house ahead of the throng.

“Well, what is it, boy?” asked the sergeant, looking over the desk.

“I’m from the Leader,” announced Larry boldly as he had heard Mr. Newton tell the policeman that day at the fire. “A thief has just been arrested down the street. The officers are bringing him here, and I want to get the story.”

“Pretty young to be a police reporter, aren’t you?” asked the sergeant with a smile.

“Oh, I’m not a regular reporter yet,” said Larry, not wishing to sail under false colors. “I’m just learning.”

“I knew it,” replied the sergeant with a smile, for he was acquainted with most of the Leader’s police reporters. “But make yourself at home, and get all the story you want.”

Then came a confusion of sound as the throng approached the outer doors of the station house.

CHAPTER X
LARRY MEETS HIS ENEMY

Into the main room of the police station came the two officers, their prisoner, the woman, and the Italian. Some of the crowd tried to follow, wild with excitement, but the doorman closed the heavy portal in their faces and several policemen on reserve duty came from the assembly room to aid in preserving order.

“Now then,” said the sergeant briskly.

The officers lined their man up in front of the brass railing and the sergeant behind the desk began asking the prisoner’s name.

“Ain’t got none,” was the laconic remark.

“I know him,” put in one of the officers. “He’s Patsy Dolliver. Lives down at Mulberry Bend and he’s a bad egg, if ever I knew one. Ain’t you, Patsy?”

Finding that it was useless to try and hide his identity, Patsy admitted his name, and then his age, residence, and a few other facts were noted down concerning him. The officer told his story.

The woman also related how Patsy had grabbed her purse, and the Italian told in excited language about his lost peanuts.

All the while Larry was making notes of names and residences, including that of the woman whose purse had been so nearly lost.

“I’ll hold you for a hearing before the judge,” the sergeant announced to the prisoner. “You’ll have to come in the morning as witnesses,” he added to the woman and the peanut man. “Lock him up, Jim,” to the doorman, indicating Patsy; and the remarkable incident was closed for the time being.

But Larry, with the facts in his possession and a lively recollection of what had taken place, hurried to the Leader office.

“I just wish I could write it, but I don’t s’pose I can, yet,” he said. “But I can tell one of the reporters and he can fix it up.”

He found Mr. Newton there ahead of him, and to the reporter Larry in breathless tones told what had happened.

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Newton. “You just tell that to Mr. Emberg himself. He’ll be glad to know you are so wide-awake. One of the men will write for you. Perhaps it will be a beat for us.”

“Oh, but some of the other papers will be sure to hear of it,” said Larry.

“They may get something about it, but not many reporters are around that early. The cops who made the arrest will go off duty and there will not be many to tell the details of the chase. That’s the best part of it. We may not get a beat in one sense of the word, but we’ll have the best story.”

When Mr. Emberg came in, Larry, after a few minutes of hesitation, got up courage enough to advance and tell the story.

“Well, you certainly had your eyes open,” said the city editor.

“I thought it would make a good story,” said Larry.

“So it will. You know what’s news all right, youngster!”

And that was the best praise Larry had that day.

“Here, Newton,” went on Mr. Emberg, “you fix Larry’s story up. Give it plenty of space and throw in lots of fun.”

Then Larry told his friend the story of the stolen pocketbook from beginning to end. Mr. Newton became infused with Larry’s enthusiasm at the description of the upsetting of the ash barrel and the peanut stand. He made many notes and then sat down at a typewriter and began to make his fingers fly as rapidly as he possibly could.

Larry could hardly wait for the paper to come out that afternoon, so anxious was he to see “his story,” as he called it. There it was, right on the front page, under a display head:

THIEF MEETS WITH MISHAP

Steals a Purse, Is Buried Beneath a
Shower of Ashes and Upsets a
Peanut Cart

Then came the story, almost as Larry had told it himself with all the energy he could throw into it, but dressed up in true reportorial style. Larry was as proud as if he had written it himself.

“Who got the thief story?” he heard several reporters ask, after the first edition came out.

“Our new member, Larry Dexter,” said Mr. Newton, pointing toward the copy boy. “Look out, fellows, or he’ll beat us at our own game.”

“Well, it’s a good yarn all right,” said one of the men. “Wish I had seen it.”

None of the other papers had anything like the story. They all had a mention of the occurrence, but most of them dismissed it with a few lines, embodying the mere police report of the matter, for unless there is the promise of something big in a police item some reporters content themselves with what the sergeant gives them. This time Larry had been instrumental in securing what was almost as good as an exclusive item.

At the end of that week Larry found an extra dollar in his pay envelope. He went to Mr. Emberg, thinking a mistake had been made and that he had been given too much.

“That’s for bringing in that story,” said the city editor. “It was worth that and more to us. You’ll get six dollars a week now instead of five dollars. You’ll find it pays to keep your eyes and ears open in this business.”

“I’m going to be a reporter some day,” said Larry. “I’m studying nights now.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Emberg. “I’ll help you all I can, and if there’s a chance you shall have it. You have proved that you have a nose for news, which is something a number who think they are real reporters have not,” and Larry felt prouder than ever.

It was several days after this that Mr. Emberg called Larry to him. At first the boy feared he had made some blunder and was about to be censured, but the smile on the city editor’s face soon reassured him.

“I am going to give you a new line of work for to-day,” said Mr. Emberg. “I hope you will make out as well as you did with your story.”

“I’ll try,” said Larry.

“And I think you’ll succeed,” said Mr. Emberg. “I want you to go over to the Aldermanic Chamber in the City Hall. There’s an important hearing being held there to-day by the Legislative Committee on life insurance matters. Mr. Newton is covering it for us. You’ll find him there at the reporters’ table, and as fast as he has any copy ready you are to bring it over.”

Larry thought this was rather easy work and wondered why the city editor laid so much stress on it.

“You’ll have to be very quick,” went on Mr. Emberg, “for we want to get as much in the regular editions as possible. You must be very careful, too, about the copy. There will probably be a number of boys from other papers there, and sometimes they play tricks. If they could make you lose your copy, or get it away from you so as to delay us, they would do it and their papers would be glad of it. So be careful of the copy Mr. Newton gives you.”

“I will,” said Larry, and he made up his mind that if any rival tried to interfere with him he would have a fight on his hands that would make him wish he had not bothered our hero.

The Aldermanic Chamber was filled with men when Larry reached it. He could hardly wiggle his way to the door, and was stopped by several policemen on guard who wanted to know what right he had to enter. But Larry had but to mention that he was from the Leader, and show a card with his name on, signed by Mr. Emberg, to gain admittance. Whereat Larry felt that newspapers were of much importance, as far as gaining entrance into public place was concerned.

He saw a number of men with pencils and paper in front of them seated around a big table, and rightly guessed that they must be the reporters. Then he caught a glimpse of Mr. Newton and managed to make his way to a place behind his friend’s chair.

“I’m glad you are going to chase copy to-day,” said Mr. Newton. “There’s going to be a hot time, and I need a boy I can depend on.”

Larry sat down on the steps which surrounded the platform where the committee members were to take their places. The room was noisy with talk and full of bustle and excitement. Men were coming and going, their arms filled with books and papers. Uniformed messengers were entering and leaving.

Larry looked on either side of him and saw that he was not the only boy present. There were scores of lads from other papers, each one in attendance on some reporter and waiting to carry copy. The crowd increased, and Larry was beginning to wonder how he could get in and out of the doorway, which was choked with the throng.

Just then he looked down at the end of the room near the entrance. He saw someone regarding him with a malicious grin. It was Peter Manton, the former copy boy of the Leader.

Larry saw Peter lean over and whisper to a boy who stood near him, and then the two gazed at Larry. In a few minutes Larry saw Peter beginning to work his way up toward him.

“I wonder if he’s going to make trouble?” thought Larry. He found out a second later.

“Wait till I git you outside!” exclaimed Peter. “I’ll fix you for having me discharged!”

Larry was about to make reply when someone shouted “Silence!” The meeting was about to start.

CHAPTER XI
LARRY HAS A FIGHT

Larry was too interested in the proceedings for a while to pay any more attention to Peter. The latter had moved back to where he was at first, and though he occasionally glared at Larry the latter did not look his way more than once or twice. The reporters were all making their pencils fly, there was no time to take notes, and they had to write out the story as it went along.

“I’ll have some copy in a minute,” Mr. Newton whispered to Larry.

The boy stood up to stretch his legs, for he was stiff from sitting so long. He buttoned his coat up ready for a struggle through the crowd to reach the door.

“There,” said Mr. Newton, folding up his papers, and handing a bunch to Larry. “Come back as soon as you take them to the office.”

Larry thrust them into his pocket and started to make his way to the door. With a little feeling of uneasiness he noticed that Peter, also, had started out, accompanied by the boy to whom he had been whispering. Larry, after a somewhat tight squeeze, managed to get out of the door. He found himself in a long corridor, that was almost deserted, for the usual loungers around the City Hall had crowded into the chamber to hear what was going on. Remembering his orders to hurry, Larry started on a run. He saw nothing of his enemy Peter and concluded the latter had gone for good.

Suddenly, as Larry was passing a particularly dark place in the corridor, a foot was thrust out. He stumbled over it, tried to recover his balance, and then went down in a heap.

“Quick now!” he heard a voice exclaim, and he recognized Peter’s tones. “Git the copy out of his pocket while I hold him!”

“I will! Grab his hands!” another boy exclaimed, and then Larry felt someone land on his back as he lay prostrate, and grasp his wrists. At the same time a hand stole into his inside pocket.

Though he was somewhat stunned by the fall, Larry rapidly regained his senses. He realized that Peter and the other boy were trying to get the copy, either to make him lose his job for his carelessness, or else to have the Leader at a disadvantage. And Larry was inclined to believe it was a spite against himself rather than a plot against the Leader that Peter was carrying out.

Recovering from the first shock there came a fierce desire to fight Peter, to attack him and prevent him from carrying out his plan. Though taken at a disadvantage Larry did not lose his presence of mind. He was a lad of considerable strength, which his country life had greatly increased.

With a sudden motion Larry arched his back, wrenched free his hands from the grip of Peter, and sent the latter rolling to one side.

“Look out or he’ll git away!” he heard Peter cry.

Larry rose, felt in his pocket to see that the copy was still safe, and then sprang to the rear so as to get a wall at his back. Then he waited for the attack, which he knew would soon begin. At first he almost wished some help would come, but the corridor remained deserted. In fact it was not the main one, and was seldom used. Then, as he got his breath and recovered from the first surprise, Larry rejoiced in the coming contest.

That the two boys did not mean to let him go without a struggle was evident. In the half light he could see them whispering together. Then they advanced both at once, like the cowards that they were, to take an unfair chance.

Larry clenched his fists, spread his feet apart, braced himself, and gritted his teeth.

“Come on!” he cried.

And come on the two lads did. They made a rush at Larry that almost overwhelmed him for a few seconds. He felt blows all over him.

With his right arm half crooked, as a guard, Larry let out with his left. At first he struck blindly, for he could not see his antagonists well. He felt his fist land on someone’s face, and, by the cry that resulted, knew he had hit Peter.

“Give it to him!” cried the former copy boy of the Leader.

Larry was struck on the cheek and once on the nose. The blows seemed to give him new strength. Striking out with both fists, he sailed at his tormentors, landing several hard thumps on faces and bodies and getting several in return.

Then came numerous hard blows from the other boys, and Larry was almost beaten to his knees. He began to feel a little weak from a heavy blow in the stomach and his head was dizzy. He feared he would fall and that the boys would steal his copy.

The thought of this nerved him to double energy. Straightening up through a shower of blows, he made a sudden dash forward, hitting out with all his force. He felt his fist land on the chin of one of the lads.

An instant later there was the thud of a fall, and the boy with Peter cried:

“I’ve had enough! He knocked me down!”

“I’ll fix him!” Peter cried, and he sailed into Larry harder than ever.

But the fight was more even now. The other boy had received punishment enough to last him for a while and he sneaked off into a dark corner to nurse his hurts. But Peter kept it up, for he felt he had a grudge against Larry and intended to pay it off.

Blows were struck in quick succession. Twice Larry received hard knocks on the face, for Peter was no unscientific fighter, having been trained in the school of the New York streets. On the other hand, Larry was stout of arm, firm on his legs, and was long-winded. So, when our hero saw that he had but one antagonist left his spirits rose and he was almost glad of the chance to thrash Peter.

Once, aiming a hard left-hander at Peter, Larry slipped and went down in a heap. Without regard for the rules of sport Peter sprang on him and began hitting the prostrate lad.

This made Larry more than ever angry and exerting all his strength he turned over and got Peter down. Then Larry struggled to his feet.

“Get up!” he cried to Peter. “I’ll fight you fair!”

“Come on, Jim!” called Peter to his friend. “We can do him now. He’s winded.”

“Oh, I am, eh?” asked Larry. “I guess you’ll find I can use my fists a bit yet!” and he waited for the oncoming of the two.

All this while the fight had been conducted quietly though none the less fiercely. Being in a seldom-used part of the building it was not heard or it would have been interrupted long before.

Now the two advanced at Larry again. He braced himself for the blows he knew would come. And come they did, for the two went at him again, hot and heavy. An unexpected blow from Peter’s fist, landing on the point of Larry’s jaw, made him feel dizzy. He felt as if he was going to topple over. Yet before he fell he resolved to give something in return. So, with a powerful half swing he struck out, straight at Peter’s face.

He felt the blow land, and saw Peter reel. Then Jim closed in on him and Larry felt that the odds were too unequal. He was afraid his precious copy would be taken from him.

Suddenly there sounded a step on the marble floor of the corridor.

“Here, you lads! What do you mean by fighting in the City Hall?” a gruff voice asked.

Larry looked up, to see a big policeman approaching. The boy conquered his inclination to topple over and braced himself. Peter and Jim, at the sight of the bluecoat, took to their heels.

“Were they both goin’ at ye at once?” asked the officer, seeing that Larry did not flee.

“They tried to do me up,” said Larry.

“Ye didn’t make out so bad,” went on the policeman with a smile. “I saw that last blow ye landed. It was a dandy. What was the trouble?”

“Oh, one of ’em had a quarrel with me,” replied Larry, not caring to go into details, “and he had a friend to help him.”

“Well, run along now, an’ don’t let me catch ye fightin’ agin,” said the officer, trying to speak severely. “If I do I’ll arrest ye. But,” he added, his admiration of Larry’s powers overcoming his instincts of duty, “that was a fine blow ye landed, all right.”

Larry lost no time in hastening to the office of the Leader. He was tired and panting from the fight and the excitement of it, but in spite of this he ran all the way and reached the city room out of breath.

At first he felt inclined to tell Mr. Emberg about the matter. Then he thought better of it, determining to fight his own battles. So, having delivered the copy, he hurried back for more, finding Mr. Newton had a bunch of it ready for him.

Larry was not molested on this trip, and he noticed that Peter was not among the copy boys, nor was Jim. They evidently did not dare return, fearing Larry would inform the policeman of their actions.

All that day, until the last edition went to press, Larry rushed back and forth with copy from the Aldermanic Chamber to the city room. He was very tired when night came.

“Why, Larry!” exclaimed his mother when he reached home. “How did you get that big lump over your eye? And your cheek is cut!” she added.

“Oh, another boy and myself had a little difference of opinion,” said Larry.

“I hope you weren’t fighting,” came from Mrs. Dexter.

“Well I—I—er had to defend myself against two of ’em,” said Larry. “It wasn’t exactly a fight, I guess.”

“I’m sure I’d worry if I knew you had fought.”

Larry did not want to deceive his mother, but he knew that to tell her the circumstances would only worry her, so he passed the matter over lightly.

CHAPTER XII
A STRANGE ASSIGNMENT

The insurance investigation lasted for several days and Larry was kept busy carrying copy for Mr. Newton. On the second day Peter Manton reappeared, with a large discolored spot over his right eye where Larry had hit him. The former office boy on the Leader did not glance at Larry, but, on the contrary, seemed anxious to escape observation. Jim did not come back.

“I’m not afraid of him,” thought Larry. But he decided it would be better to run no risks of being late with his copy, so he determined to avoid an encounter with Peter.

With this end in view Larry used the main corridor in going and coming from the chamber. That was filled with people on various errands and Larry had no fear that Peter would try to stop him. In fact Larry was not physically afraid at all, but he felt he owed the paper a duty to avoid anything that would cause trouble.

But Peter showed no desire to make any. He kept out of Larry’s way and seemed to be content with attending to his own work of rushing copy for the reporter he was aiding.

Larry was not sorry when the last day of the investigation came. The novelty had worn off, and it was rather tiresome sitting and listening to questions and answers. The only relief came when he went out with copy and came back. The reporters, also, were weary of the grind.

“Well, Larry,” remarked Mr. Newton on the afternoon of the final hearing. “I think we’re entitled to a holiday. What do you say?”

“I don’t believe we’ll get it,” said Larry with a smile.

“Maybe not a day off, but any kind of work will be a holiday after what I’ve been through. I’d like to report even a missionary meeting for a change.”

For some time thereafter Larry was kept busy in the office. He proved himself very useful, and every day was learning more about the business. Meanwhile he was not neglecting his studies at home, in preparation for the night school.

With the professor he plodded over the books, learning to become a better reader, more proficient in arithmetic and in writing. Then too, he began to study history, for the teacher told him it was necessary, if he was to write about things modern, to know what had happened in the past.

So Larry not only dipped into the happenings of the past in this country but what had taken place in others. It was hard work. After a long day at the office, to sit down and tackle dry subjects was something few boys would care about. It would have been easier to go off to a bowling alley or to the theater. But Larry, though he wanted to do those things, felt that he owed it to himself and his mother to try and advance himself. And advancement he realized could only come by learning more than he already knew.

One day, early in September, Mr. Emberg called Larry to him and looked the boy over critically.

“You seem pretty strong and healthy,” the city editor said.

“I guess I am,” replied Larry, wondering what was coming next.

“How would you like to take a trip under the Hudson River?” asked Mr. Emberg.

Larry did not know what to say. Occasionally the city editor joked, and the boy thought this might be one of those times.

“I don’t believe I could swim that far,” Larry said at length. “That is, not under water.” On the surface, splashing about, Larry knew he would be at home, though he had never thought of tackling the big stream.

“I guess you won’t have to swim,” went on the city editor.

“What do you mean then?” asked Larry.

“I’m going to send you on a trip with Mr. Newton,” Mr. Emberg went on. “You’ll have to start in half an hour.”

“All right,” responded Larry. He had formed the habit of not asking many questions, for he had found in the newspaper business it was best to follow orders and to hold oneself in readiness for anything that might turn up. Larry had no idea where he was going, but Mr. Emberg soon enlightened him.

“You know they have been digging a tunnel beneath the Hudson River, so as to bring passengers from Jersey City over to New York without using the ferry,” the city editor went on. Larry did, for he had read of the project in the paper. “Well,” resumed Mr. Emberg, “one of the tubes is about finished. All that remains is to cut through a thin brick wall, or bulkhead, as it is called, and one can walk from New York to New Jersey under the bottom of the river.

“The company in charge of the tunnel work has invited a number of newspaper men to make the first trip to-day, when the bulkhead will be cut through and the first complete passage under the historic river will be made. Mr. Newton is to go along to represent the Leader.”

“But what am I to do?” asked Larry.

“You’re going to help us get a beat I hope,” said the city editor.

Larry’s eyes brightened. He saw himself on the road to becoming a reporter.

“You see,” Mr. Emberg went on, “the company in charge of the work is not exactly sure that their plans will succeed. So they have asked a number of newspaper men to go along on the trial trip. But they have been very quiet about it and no other paper than ours—at least I hope so—knows what the real purpose of the trip is. Most of the reporters think it is only a jaunt to see how the work has progressed. There have been a number of such.

“So carefully have the builders laid their plans that they think, once all the reporters are down in the big tube, they cannot get out to say whether the thing is a success or a failure, in time to reach the afternoon papers. As for the morning papers, if the thing is a failure it will be so covered up by the engineers, that the reporters will never know it.

“Now my plan is this! I want you to go along with Mr. Newton. You will be his assistant, for each invitation admits two. If the thing should succeed, which I think it will, we want to know it this afternoon; not to-morrow. And if it does succeed, it will only be known to those down in the tube.

“The only way we could find out in the office would be to have some word from those in the tube or tunnel. The only way we can get word is for someone to come back from the tube. Mr. Newton could not leave, for, if he did, after the wall had been cut through, his absence would be noted, and other reporters would rush out. Then we would not score a beat.

“But if you could go along, note what takes place, and then, when the chance offers, get away unnoticed and come out of the tube to a telephone on the surface, we could get the news ahead of anyone else. Do you think you can do it?”

Larry hesitated. It was a pretty big contract for a small boy, but he resolved to try it.

“I’ll do it!” he said.

“I knew you would,” said Mr. Emberg. “It’s almost time for you and Mr. Newton to start.”

The reporter came up a few minutes later, nodded to the city editor, and said:

“Well, are we going to try it?”

“With Larry’s help we are,” was the answer.

“Come along then,” said Mr. Newton, as though taking a trip under the Hudson River was one of the most ordinary things in this busy world.

Larry put on his hat and, after a friendly nod from Mr. Emberg, left the office. The reporter and copy boy went down Broadway to the big Trinity building, adjoining the church of that name, and went to the office of the company that was building the tunnel. There they found a crowd of reporters; one from almost every newspaper in New York. The men were ushered into a finely fitted up room, and told to make themselves comfortable until the president of the company, Mr. Lackadon, was ready to escort them.

“Keep a quiet tongue,” advised Mr. Newton to Larry. “None of the others know what is up.”

Larry nodded. Then he listened to what the other newspaper men had to say. Few of them knew what their assignment was, except that they were to come and report something about the tunnel that had been in construction for some time.

“All ready, gentlemen!” announced a voice, and the president of the concern appeared in the room.

“Where are we going?” asked several reporters of evening papers. “We’d like to send up a few lines about the story.”

“It’s a sort of a secret,” said the president with a smile. “If any of you want to back out, now’s your chance.”

No one ever heard of a newspaper man backing out, so no one moved.

“Come on,” said the president.

He led the way to the big express elevators and soon the crowd of reporters were on the ground floor. They went out the rear entrance and, by way of a number of back streets, to a dock on the New York side of the Hudson River where a steamer was in waiting.

“Keep close to me,” said Mr. Newton to Larry.

Once aboard the craft little time was lost. It steamed to the Jersey City side of the river, and there, disembarking, the reporters and the officials of the company who accompanied them walked through the yards of a railroad until they came to a group of small buildings.

“This is the mouth of the shaft that leads down to the level of the tunnel,” said the president, pointing to a small structure.

Almost as if in a dream Larry followed Mr. Newton. Entering the building he found himself in the midst of a lot of machinery.

“Get on the elevator,” said a voice.

Larry stepped on a wooden platform, which soon began to sink. The others were crowded about him. In a few minutes they found themselves at the bottom of a shaft fifty feet in diameter and sixty feet deep. As they landed, right in front of them yawned a black hole.

“The tunnel,” said the president, with a wave of his hand.

There was a murmur of astonishment from most of the reporters, for they had never seen the big tube before.

“Now that I have you all here,” the president went on, “I want to tell you that we propose, for the first time in the history of the world, to walk under the Hudson River!”

There was a chorus of remonstrances, for the reporters for the afternoon papers did not like missing a chance for a story, and they realized they could send no word now.

“If the trial succeeds,” went on the president, “we will cut through the brick wall that separates the east from the west end of the tunnel. I think it will succeed as all but a very thin portion of the wall is gone. All that remains is to turn on a hydraulic jack that will cut down the rest, and the tunnel will be an assured fact.”

“Can’t we send word to our papers?” asked several reporters.

“I’m afraid not,” was the answer of the president. “Those on the morning papers, of course, can tell what happens, but the evening ones will have to wait until to-morrow.”

“We’ll see about that,” whispered Mr. Newton to Larry. “Keep close to me, and when I give you the word you skip back the way we came, tell the man at the elevator you want to get out, and reach the surface as soon as possible. When you do, ring up the office, and tell Mr. Emberg all you have seen.”

“All right,” whispered Larry.

“Forward!” cried the president.

CHAPTER XIII
UNDER THE RIVER

The tunnel under the Hudson River was begun several decades ago. It was started from the New York side, a little south of Christopher Street, and continued out under the bed of the river for some distance. Then the company failed and they built a brick wall, twenty-four feet thick, at the end of the tube they had dug. It remained in that condition for many years, until a new company was formed. This concern took up the work where the others left off.

There were two tubes, each circular, and about twenty-four feet in diameter, dug under the river. They were separated by a wall of earth, and each tube was lined with heavy cast iron. In cutting the tube a big thing like an exaggerated apple corer was pushed through the earth sixty feet below the surface of the river bed by hydraulic force. To prevent the water from rushing in, the shield was kept filled with compressed air at a heavy pressure.

Up to within a few days this compressed air had been used in the tunnel, but when the reporters started through the tunnel was near enough completion to render it unnecessary. The heavy cast iron lining was all in place, except where the brick wall was, and it only remained to cut through the masonry, establish communication from one end to the other, fit a few pieces of cast iron into place, and the tunnel would be established. The cutting through of the wall was the event of great importance, and really marked the completion of the first stage of the work. Hence every reporter felt the need of getting a good story about it.

“We’ll try to beat ’em,” whispered Mr. Newton to Larry as the party started forward.

The tunnel was cut in a slanting or downward direction at first. It began several hundred feet back from the edge of the river and, when it was actually below the bed of the stream it was level.

It was quite dark in the big tube, save here and there where electric lights gleamed. Most of the party walked, but there were small cars, hauled by a cable, for the use of the directors and officials of the construction company.

Through the tube they went. In spite of the heavy lining, sustaining thousands of pounds of pressure, some water leaked in. It splashed down in big drops, and felt like rain. Once a drop fell on Larry’s lips, and it tasted salty, just as the lower Hudson River does. Then he began to realize that he was in a queer place, under the bed of one of the largest rivers in the United States. It hardly seemed possible that he was walking under the historic stream that Henry Hudson, in the Half Moon, discovered so many years ago.

As the party progressed, the president explained the workings of the machinery, and stated that when the concrete lining had been placed over the iron, there would be no leakage.

“Where are we now?” asked one of the reporters.

“Right under the middle of the river,” was the president’s reply. “Above us are the big ferryboats. The ocean steamers are sailing, and the tug boats are darting to and fro.”

“What if the tunnel should break?” asked the same newspaper man.

“None of us would be left to tell what happened,” was the reply. “The water would rush in and—that would be the end of us.”

Larry shivered, though it was hot in the tube.

“But we didn’t build this tunnel to break,” the president went on. “You are as safe as if you were in your offices.”

“I wish I could believe that,” a young reporter remarked, with something like a shiver.

Here and there the gloom was lighted by an incandescent lamp. The cable, pulling small cars, in which the officers and directors of the company rode, while the rest walked, slid along on the grooved wheels. The way was obstructed by huge pieces of iron, being some extra ones of those that formed the inner lining of the tunnel.

With occasional jokes, which a reporter makes even at a funeral, the party proceeded. Now and than a halt would be made while the president explained some technical point.

Finally the party came to a stop. It was quite dark and the few lights only seemed to make the gloom deeper.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Newton.

“We’ve come to some sort of a wall,” another reporter replied. “It seems they have to cut through this before we can go any further. Gee! But I wish I had time to send something about this to my paper. It will be a dandy story.”

“I guess there aren’t any telephones under the Hudson,” said Mr. Newton, nudging Larry in the ribs.

“No, but there may be some day. Well, I suppose I’ll have to make a story for to-morrow, but the morning papers will have the best of it.”

Mr. Newton did not reply, and Larry thought that perhaps the other reporter might be mistaken. He began to see what a fine thing it would be to beat the other papers. The whole party had now halted. There was a sort of inclined platform of boards built from the floor close to the roof of the tunnel.

Up this the members of the party walked until they came to a level place where they stood together. Overhead was the iron-ribbed lining of the big tube. It had only recently been put in place and, as it was not water tight, moisture from the river came through quite freely.

Big drops splashed down almost like rain, and it was salt rain at that.

“I guess I’ll have to get a new suit out of the office, for mine’s spoiled,” said one of the newspaper men.

“And my hat’s gone to grass,” remarked another, as he contemplated his straw headgear.

“You want to be ready to slip back soon now,” whispered Mr. Newton to Larry. “They’re going to try the hydraulic ram on the brick wall. As soon as they start it I’ll let you know. Then you can slip down as quietly as possible, make your way back through the tunnel, go up to the surface, and telephone to Mr. Emberg. He has the story almost written, for he knows something about the tunnel. All he wants to know are a few particulars which you can give him.”

Larry nerved himself for the coming effort. There seemed to be a sort of uneasiness in the crowd, for some of them did not know what was to come. They were tired of being kept in the dark.

“We are now going to start the hydraulic ram,” said the voice of the president. “It will cut through the brick wall and then we will step through the hole into the other part of the tunnel, thus completing the trip from New Jersey to New York. Let me call your attention to the fact that this trip is made, not like the partial one of a year ago, through the northern tube under compressed air. We have so far advanced that we do not need to maintain an air pressure any longer for safety.”

“All ready,” called one of the engineers.

There was a little shifting in the crowd. Men in red shirts and big rubber boots began fumbling at some pipes and machinery.

“Here she goes!” cried someone, and Larry prepared himself to start on the back trip at a signal from Mr. Newton.

There was a rending, crashing, tearing sound. The brick wall began to crumble under the powerful force of the plunger worked by water power. Then came a dull thud, and silence.

“What’s the matter?” cried the president.

“I’m sorry to say the ram’s broken,” replied the engineer.

“Cut the wall down with crowbars and pickaxes then,” cried the president.

“I regret, gentlemen,” he went on, “that we will have a little delay. The wall was thicker than we thought. We cut away as much as we dared and we depended on the ram to do the rest. It has failed us. But we will soon have a passageway through, and you will have been the first party to walk under the river without the use of compressed air, which is something of an achievement.”

“Oh, for a chance to telephone the paper!” exclaimed several reporters. But they knew there was no opportunity.

“Now’s your time!” whispered Mr. Newton to Larry. “Hurry back, and as soon as you can get to a telephone tell Mr. Emberg all that you have seen and about the failure of the ram to work. I’d go, only if I leave the other men will notice it and they’ll try the same trick.”

Slipping through the crowd, Larry started back. He was not noticed amid the excitement. He could hear the blows which the laborers were beginning to rain on the brick wall and the thud of them sounded like thunder in the tunnel. Down the sloping planks he went until he found himself on the floor of the tube.

Then he began to run as fast as possible on the uneven surface and through the semi-darkness. Several times he stumbled over big sections of the iron lining and once he fell into a puddle of water. He got up, not minding the smart of his cut hands, and kept on.

The tunnel made a slight turn a few hundred feet back from where the wall was being cut through and this curve hid the throng from Larry. Now he was all alone in the big shaft and he began to experience a feeling of fear. Suppose some accident should happen? If the roof should cave in? Or he should fall, strike his head, and be rendered unconscious?

All these things Larry thought of as he hurried on. But he tried to forget them and to think only of getting to the surface and telephoning the news. The fact that the hydraulic ram had failed to work made the story all the better for newspaper purposes.

Larry’s one real fear was lest he might not be able to get through the air lock. This was a sort of double opening leading into the tube at the western end. There was no air pressure in it however, but the lock remained and had to be entered through small openings.

When the party had reached this, in going through the tunnel, they found the opening so narrow that but one could pass through at a time. Workmen had been stationed there to help, as the doors which formerly closed the lock were still in place and were heavy affairs. If one of them should happen to be closed Larry felt that his mission would prove a failure.

He kept on as fast as he could walk. He was glad when he came to an electric light, for it made the tube seem less lonesome. But the lights were few and when he had left one behind Larry began to wish the next one would gleam out.

When he felt the floor of the tube beginning to take an upward turn Larry knew he was approaching the end, and, also, the air lock.

“I hope the men have left it open,” he said to himself.

He was almost running now. Suddenly something black loomed up in front of him, as he could see by the glare from a near-by electric lamp. He put out his hand and touched something cold and hard.

“It’s the air lock!” he exclaimed. “And the door is shut!”

CHAPTER XIV
LARRY’S SUCCESS

For a little while Larry felt a sense of bitter disappointment. After all his effort and the plans of Mr. Emberg and Mr. Newton, to have the venture fail was, he thought, a hard thing. And fail it seemed the scheme must, since unless he could soon get to the surface and telephone the news, it would be too late for the day’s paper and the others would have it to-morrow. Then the Leader would not score “a beat.”

The boy went close to the big iron door and examined it as well as he could in the dim light. It was a massive affair with ribs of steel and swung on heavy hinges. It was built to withstand heavy pressure, though there was none on it now. It was fastened by means of a peculiar catch that was operated from within.

Larry passed his fingers around the edge. He began on the side where the hinges were, since he could not see very well. Not a crack was to be felt. Then, as his hand came around on the other side, he gave a start. He was aware of a slight opening.

“The door is not shut tight!” he cried. “Maybe I can open it!”

He felt around until he came to a place where the opening was widest. As he had discovered the door was not quite shut tight. He put his fingers into the crack and pulled with all his force.

The big plate of iron never moved. He might as well have tried to pull down the side of the tunnel. The door was rusty on the hinges, and, even had it swung freely the very weight of it was too much for a boy.

“I guess I’ll have to give up!” thought Larry.

He moved back a bit, rubbing his hands where the edges of the iron had cut them slightly. As he did so his foot hit against something and he nearly stumbled to the floor. He saved himself by putting out his hand, which came in contact with something cold.

By the touch of it Larry knew it was a crowbar. He grasped it with both hands and pulled it from the crack in the wall where some workman had left it.

“Maybe I can pry the door open with this,” he said. “Luck seems to be coming my way after all.”

The bar was heavy, but Larry strained at it until he had inserted the wedge-like edge in the crack between the door and the side of the air lock.

“Here goes!” he exclaimed.

He pressed on the bar with all his strength. It did not budge.

“I guess it’s tighter than I thought,” gasped the boy.

Once again he pushed until his arms trembled with the strain. Again and again, throwing himself forward, he forced the bar away from him.

Then, just when he was ready to give up in despair, he felt the iron lever give slightly. So little was the movement he half doubted whether it had moved. But as he pressed harder and harder he felt it sway, and then he knew he had started the door to swinging.

“I must keep at it!” he panted, “or it will get stuck again.”

Then with all his strength he pushed until, in the half-light, he saw the crack opening wider and wider until the door was half open and there was space enough for him to slip through.

“Hurrah!” cried Larry faintly. “Now to see if the other door is open,” for the air lock had two portals.

He dragged the bar with him as he stooped to go through the small opening. The air lock was about ten feet long, constructed entirely of steel and iron, and was about as big around as a hoisting engine boiler. Larry had to bend almost double as he went through it. Fortunately he found the other door open, and a few seconds later he was out in the tunnel again.

“Now for a telephone,” he cried as he sprang forward on the run.

Just ahead he could see a big patch of light that indicated where the round shaft led from the surface of the earth down to the floor of the tunnel. The going was easier now and the air was better. Larry soon reached the foot of the shaft.

He found a number of workmen there. They were covered with dirt and water and Larry knew they had been working in the tunnel.

“Where’d ye come from, boy?” asked one of them.

“I was with the party that went through a little while ago,” Larry answered. “One of the men sent me back for something.”

He did not say what it was, for fear some of the men might not think it proper for him to telephone the news to his paper.

“Want to go up?” asked the man in charge of the elevator.

Larry nodded. The man motioned for him to get on the movable platform which was about all the hoist was, and then gave the signal to start.

In a few moments the boy was at the surface. He made his way out of the engine room at the mouth of the upright shaft and hurried across the railroad yards in the direction he had come. On the way in he had noticed an office where there was a telephone and he made for this.

The man in charge gave permission for the boy to use the instrument, though he stared somewhat in surprise at Larry, who was covered with dirt and water.

“Fall in the river?” he asked.

“No, I came through the tunnel,” replied the boy.

Then he rang up central, was soon connected with the Leader office, and a few seconds later was telling Mr. Emberg what had happened. The city editor, who was familiar with the work, and the prospective battering down of the brick wall, could easily understand the situation from Larry’s description. A few details sufficed and then, with a hurried “Good-bye,” Mr. Emberg rang off, having told Larry to come back to the office.

“Are you a reporter?” asked the man in the railroad office, as Larry hung up the receiver.

“No, I’m only a copy boy,” was the answer. “But I’m going to be a reporter some day. I am helping one of our men to-day.”

“Well, I should say you would be a reporter,” the man went on, for he had listened to what Larry was saying over the wire. “That was pretty slick on your part. The Leader’s an all-right paper!”

“Glad you think so,” replied Larry. “How much for the telephone charge?”

“Nothing,” replied the man. “Glad to have you use it for such a big piece of news. So the tunnel is really cut through, eh?”

“It will be in a few minutes, I guess,” replied Larry.

Then he started for the Leader office, first having borrowed a brush from the railroad man, and cleaned some of the mud from his clothes. Before he got back to his office Larry heard the boys on the streets crying:

“Extra! Extra! Full account of the opening of the big Hudson River tunnel!”

Larry bought a Leader and there, on the front page, under a big heading, was an account of the trip he, Mr. Newton, and the others had made that afternoon, and which was not yet finished. This time the press was a little ahead of the happening and the Leader, through Larry’s success, had scored a big beat.

Arriving at the office Larry found everyone but Mr. Emberg had gone home, for it was quite some time past the regular edition hour.

“You’re all right, Larry!” the city editor exclaimed. “It’s a fine story. Have any trouble?”

“Only a little,” said Larry modestly, for he did not want to boast of opening the door that had given him so much trouble.

“It’s a good story! It’s a beat!” said the city editor half to himself. “They tried to keep it quiet, but we beat ’em at their own game. That fact about the hydraulic ram breaking was a fine feature.”

Larry sat down in a chair, for he was tired. Then Mr. Emberg, who seemed for a time to have forgotten that he was present, noticed him.

“You can go home, Larry,” he added. “You’ve done enough to-day.”

“I thought I’d stay until Mr. Newton came in,” said the boy. “I’d like to hear how the thing ended.”

“All right, I’m going to stay myself,” said the city editor. He began looking over some proofs on his desk in readiness for the next day’s paper. In half an hour Mr. Newton arrived.

“Hello, Larry!” the reporter exclaimed. “Did we do ’em? Well, I guess yes! How about it, Mr. Emberg?”

“You and Larry certainly covered yourselves with glory,” spoke the city editor. “First thing we know Larry will be out getting news himself.”

“Well, I guess the other papers will sit up and take notice,” went on Mr. Newton. “Not one of the other men got a line in to-day and they’re half wild. It took quite a while for the men to cut through the wall. Then there was a lot of speech-making over the importance of the affair and we finished the journey, walking all the way from New Jersey to New York, under the river, though I can’t exactly say it was without getting wet, for the tunnel leaked like a sieve after we got through the wall.”

“It was a good piece of work,” commented Mr. Emberg. Then with a nod to Larry and Mr. Newton he went out. The reporter and the copy boy soon followed and, that night, Larry astonished his mother, sisters, and brother with the wonderful tale of going under the river.

“It’s dess like a fairy ’tory,” said little Mary.

“Did you find any gold?” asked Jimmy, his eyes big with astonishment.

“No,” said Larry with a laugh, “I wish I had.”

“And didn’t you see any goblins?” asked Lucy with a smile.

“Nary a one,” was Larry’s reply. “Though some of the workmen looked like ’em in the darkness with their rough clothes and big boots on.”

“I’m afraid it was a dangerous place,” spoke Mrs. Dexter. “I don’t believe I want you to be a reporter, Larry, if they have to take such risks.”

“Oh, it isn’t often they have to go into such places,” replied Larry. “There was no danger. And think of being able to say you have been under the Hudson River! It’s like being a discoverer.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re home safe,” said his mother. “Now we’ll have supper.”

CHAPTER XV
LARRY GOES TO SCHOOL

It was with some surprise that Larry found a dollar extra in his pay envelope Friday afternoon, for it was on that day that the assistant cashier used to come around with the salaries. There was a five-dollar bill and two one-dollar bills, and Larry, who since his first raise had been getting six dollars a week, thought a mistake had been made.

He went to Mr. Newton at the first opportunity and told him about it, asking his advice.

“You’d better speak to Mr. Emberg about it before you hand the extra money back,” said the reporter, with a smile.

“Eh? What’s that?” asked Mr. Emberg, when Larry, in hesitating tone, mentioned the matter. “An extra dollar, eh? Well, that’s all right, Larry. That’s a reward for your good work in the tunnel. I heard yesterday about you opening the door. Some of the workmen who knew it was closed found it opened, and knew you must have done it. I want to say that the Leader appreciates such efforts. And the only way we can show appreciation is by giving people more money. So you’ll get seven dollars a week now. I hope it will be much more in time.”

Larry glowed with pleasure, more at the kind words than at the increase in wages, though, of course, that was very welcome.

“My, you’re getting rich,” said Lucy that night when, at the supper table, he told of his good fortune.

“I mean to be, some day,” spoke Larry confidently. “I want to be rich enough to hire that big doctor that’s coming to New York soon, so he can cure you.”

“I’m afraid there’s no hope for me,” replied Lucy, turning her head so as to hide her tears. Her pain had been worse lately, though she had not complained.

Mrs. Dexter was much rejoiced over her son’s advancement, for every bit of money was needed. She could not earn a great deal, and there was much food to buy as well as clothing for the children. She had saved about one hundred dollars of the money she had had when she came to New York, but this she had put away in case of sickness.

It was now about the middle of September. Larry had kept up his studies with the professor and had made good progress.

“The night schools open next week,” said Mr. Carlton one evening, after he and Larry had closed the books. “I suppose you are going to start in.”

“Yes, sir,” said Larry, “and I’m very much obliged for the help you have given me.”

“I was only too glad to do it,” replied the professor. “I hope you will get on well in your classes. If you need help come to me.”

Larry learned from the professor the proper night school to apply at on the evening the term opened. It was some distance from the house where Larry lived. He started off with well wishes from his mother.

He found quite a crowd of boys around the doors, for the school had not yet opened. The youngsters were skylarking, laughing, shouting, and playing tricks. It was almost like a day school, Larry thought, except that the boys were bigger, for all of them worked in the daytime. Some came from a desire to educate themselves, but a number were obliged to attend under the factory laws. These laws provided that if a boy went to work too young he must make up for it by attending night school.

It was these latter lads who seemed to be making the most fun. They evidently did not care much about the lessons.

“Here comes another!” cried a voice, as Larry walked down the street toward the school. “Let’s make him run the gauntlet!”

“Line up!” shouted several, and they formed a narrow path, with boys on either edge of the sidewalk, making a lane which Larry would have to pass through. At first he did not appreciate what was up, but when he saw the lads raise bundles of books or papers, and prepare to hit him as he passed along, he knew what was coming.

It was fashioned after the gauntlet the Indians used to force their prisoners to run through, only in the olden days death was often the end of the game. Here it was mainly for fun, though sometimes very rough.

“Soak him now!” cried several as Larry reached the head of the line and started through the lane of boys.

At first Larry hesitated. Then he realized that if he turned back the boys might call him a coward. And he felt that if he was to go to school with them it would be an unpleasant thing to bear that name. So he resolved to run the gauntlet, come what might.

Shielding his head with his upraised arms he entered the lane. Thick and fast the blows rained on him. Most of them came from bundles of paper and did not hurt much. As books, however, came down on Larry’s head they made him wince. But he only joined in the shouts of glee and made up his mind not to care.

“He’s game all right!” cried several of the older lads. “Soak him, fellers!”

“Whoop!” yelled the crowd, with as much vim as did ever the Indians shout over the discomfiture of a captive.

Larry was halfway down the line. He got some pretty hard knocks there, as the bigger lads were at that point. One blow sent his hat sailing from his head. He was about to stoop and pick it up, but someone yelled:

“Go ahead; we’ll save it for you!”

On he ran. He began to wish he was at the end of the lane, which seemed to be getting longer instead of shorter. The blows came thicker and were harder. In fact they all seemed to be from bundles of books now, as few of the remaining boys had paper. But Larry was not going to back out.

The excitement was growing, as several other luckless ones had been made to take the dreaded journey. This took some attention away from Larry, for which he was thankful. Now he was within a few lads from the end of the line. Several vigorous blows were given, making Larry’s arms and head sting with pain. Then, just as he was about to emerge from the gauntlet, someone put out a foot and tripped him. Larry threw out his hands and saved his head from hitting the pavement, but his palms were cut by the fall.

He staggered to his feet, anger in his heart, and a desire to tackle the boy who had tripped him so unfeelingly.

“That’s a mean trick!” exclaimed several of the boys.

“Who did it?” asked Larry.

“I did!” exclaimed a boy on the end of the line. “What of it?”

Larry turned and saw grinning at him Peter Manton, the rival office boy.

“If you want to fight say so,” sneered Peter, advancing toward Larry.

Larry was nothing of a coward. He was not afraid of Peter, and felt that if he gave him a good drubbing, which he was confident he could, from his experience in the City Hall, it would only be what Peter deserved.

A crowd of boys, scenting what always is an attraction, regardless of the right or wrong of it, made a circle about the two. The gauntlet was forgotten in the prospect of something more exciting. Larry clenched his fists and advanced with firm footsteps.

At that instant the school bell rang and the doors were thrown open. Several teachers came out to form the boys in line, and a policeman, one being always on duty at the evening schools, made his appearance.

“Come now, steady! No scrappin’!” exclaimed the officer. “Yez’ll all go in quiet an’ orderly like or I’ll tap yez one or two wid me sthick!” and he swung his night baton with a suggestive air.

“Form in line!” exclaimed the teachers.

The crowd about Larry and Peter dispersed. The boys had no desire to be caught aiding a fight the first night of school, since many of them had their fathers to reckon with and did not want to be expelled.

As for Larry he felt that he had a just cause for a battle with Peter. The latter, however, did not stay to see the outcome of his challenge. As soon as there was an excuse he broke away from the encircling crowd and made for the open door. Perhaps he had too good a recollection of Larry’s sturdy fists the time they had met in the City Hall corridor.

At any rate the fight was off for that night, though Larry determined he would pay Peter back the first chance he got. Into the different rooms the boys crowded. The teachers, with a skill born of long experience, soon separated them into classes.

Larry was somewhat surprised, when, with a number of other boys, he had marched into a room, to see, seated in it, half a score of men. He then learned for the first time, that a number of grown persons, who had had no chance to study when they were young, attended the night schools. They were trying to learn more so as to get better positions. There were quite a few foreigners also, whose main object was to learn the English language.

The teacher in Larry’s class put the boys through a rough and ready examination. To Larry’s delight he found he was able to answer with ease the test questions. This was because of his preliminary study with the professor.

The teacher, seeing he was a bright boy and well grounded in the rudiments, passed him on to a higher class, where Larry settled down for the term.

Thus began his first night at evening school, a strange experience for him. There was little studying done at the initial session. The boys were enrolled and then, after a short lecture by the teacher, who urged the lads to study, the class was given a lesson to prepare for the next night and then dismissed.

Tired and aching from his experience, with somewhat of a feeling of anger against his old enemy Peter, and with his head filled with thoughts of the new life opening before him, Larry went home. He found his mother and Lucy still up, anxious to hear how he had made out.

Larry related to them his experiences, telling of the gauntlet only as a game and making light of his hurts.

“Aren’t they pretty rough boys, Larry?” asked his mother.

“No rougher than many others,” replied Larry, bound to stick up for those with whom he was to associate.

He studied some of his lessons that night. Then he took his spelling book with him to the office, thinking he would get a chance during the spare hours of the day, or at lunch time, to go over the exercises.

CHAPTER XVI
LARRY AT A STRIKE

Larry’s desire to get a little study in during his spare moments was the cause of some trouble between him and the office boy who had taken Peter’s place. This lad’s name was Tom Mead, and he was much the same type of a youngster as Peter was. Not that he was bad, but he was up to sharp tricks, and he did not like to work when he could get out of it.

Bud Nelson was, by right of long service, the head office boy in the city room. Larry came next, and then Tom.

Things had been pretty lively in the Leader office for the past week, as there was an election on and there were many stories for the reporters. This made much more copy than usual, and, consequently, more trips from the city room to the pneumatic tube.

The boys had fallen into the habit of taking turns with rushing the copy, which went up in batches, so that the work would be more evenly divided. At Larry’s suggestion there were three chairs in a row. When one boy took some copy, to the tube he came back and took the end seat. The boy who had been immediately behind him had, in the meanwhile moved up one seat to be ready for the next batch. Thus they had to run only a third as often as before, and the work was shared evenly.

When it came his turn to take the rear seat, which insured him several minutes of quietness, Larry would take out his lesson book and study. This did not seem to meet with the approval of Tom, who had a dislike for “book-worms” as he called them.

“Regular sissy-boy,” he said of Larry, though he did not venture to call our hero that to his face.

One afternoon, when Larry had hurried to the tube with a bunch of copy he came back, expecting to take the last seat, which had been occupied by Tom. He found the latter still in the end chair, and the boy showed no signs of moving up.

“Move ahead,” said Larry, in a low tone.

“Move yourself!” exclaimed Tom. “I’ve got as good a right here as you. I’m tired of chasing copy while you read books. I’m going to take a rest.”

“I’m studying, not reading,” said Larry. “Besides I carry my share of copy. It will be your turn in a minute.”

“Copy!” called Mr. Emberg, and Bud, who had moved to the first chair, jumped up and ran for it.

“It’s your turn next,” said Larry to Tom.

“I don’t care if it is,” was the answer.

“Copy!” cried Mr. Emberg’s assistant.

Tom did not leave his seat.

“It’s your turn,” repeated Larry.

“I don’t care if it is!” exclaimed Tom. “Go with it yourself if you’re in such a hurry.”

“Copy here!” was the cry. “Come, what’s the matter with you boys? Going to sleep?”

Mr. Emberg, wondering at the delay, looked up. He saw Bud returning to the room, and, being aware of the understanding among the boys about their turns, looked to see what the hitch was between Larry and Tom.

“Whose turn is it?” asked the city editor. “Be quick about it. Don’t stand there all day. The paper has to come out.”

“It’s his turn!” exclaimed Larry.

“Well, he’s always readin’,” growled Tom. “I’m tired of runnin’ with his copy.”

“I’m not always reading!” declared Larry, determined to have justice done. “It was my turn to take the last seat, but he wouldn’t move up for me.”

“He’s always got a book in his pocket,” growled Tom.

“Whose turn is it?” demanded Mr. Emberg, coming over to where the boys were and addressing Bud.

“I think it was Tom’s,” said Bud.

“Well, then I’ll go,” growled the newest office boy, with no very good grace.

“What book are you reading?” asked Mr. Emberg of Larry.

“I wasn’t reading, I was studying,” was Larry’s answer as he produced his speller and handed it to the city editor.

“Um!” remarked Mr. Emberg. “Spelling, eh? Well, you’ll need it in the newspaper business. But don’t neglect your work to study, Larry.”

“No, sir,” replied the boy, yet he felt that Mr. Emberg was not displeased with him. “And I want you boys to stop quarreling about this carrying of copy,” the city editor said. “Each one must take his turn.”

“Squealer!” whispered Tom when he came back, and he slyly shook his fist at Larry. “I’ll fix you!”

So Larry seemed to have made two enemies in a short time. But he knew that he had done no wrong and he felt that it was not his fault. As for being afraid of either Peter or Tom, such a thought never entered his head.

Larry was beginning to be of much service around the Leader office. He was quick to understand what was wanted, and none of the other boys could go to the composing room and get a proof as rapidly as he could. He took a pleasure in his work, and never shirked the carrying of copy.

Occasionally he was sent out with the reporters who had to go some distance away to cover stories, to bring back their copy. He liked this sort of work. Best of all he liked to go with Mr. Newton, for this reporter, being one of the oldest and most valuable men, had important assignments, and usually went to some interesting place.

It happened that there was a strike on one of the lines of electric cabs operated by a private company in the upper part of the city. From a small affair the matter grew to be a large one, since the strikers would not work themselves, nor did they want to let men called in to fill their places take out the vehicles.

The result was a war between the union and non-union factions. Matters grew so hot that the police had to be called out several times, for a cab operated by a “scab,” as the non-unionists were called by the strikers, was likely to be stoned, upset, and the occupants injured. The strike grew in size until the whole electric cab system was involved.

Most of the trouble centered around the headquarters of the cab concern, pretty well uptown, and there were several rows between the strikers, the non-unionists, and the police.

“I think you had better cover that strike,” said Mr. Emberg to Mr. Newton one day. “You’ll have to remain on the scene all day. I’ll send a boy up with you and you can send your copy down. Telephone if anything big happens, otherwise write the story as it goes along and send it in. Make it interesting, for the people like to read about such things. What boy do you want?”

“I’ll take Larry,” said Mr. Newton. “He’s quick and smart.”

“That’s the reason I like to have him in the office,” said the city editor. “But go ahead, take him with you. And you’ll have to keep an eye out for him and yourself too. The strikers are in an ugly mood, and they have little use for the papers.”

“I’ll look out,” said Mr. Newton.

Larry went uptown to the office of the cab concern. In order to have a headquarters near the scene of battle Mr. Newton arranged to have the use of a little store near the cab stables. There was a telephone in it, and a small table where the reporter could write.

Larry and Mr. Newton reached the place about nine o’clock in the morning. No sooner had they arrived than there was a fight between the union and non-union forces. Several of the former attacked a cab taken out by a new man. They pulled him from the seat and then, turning on the power full, allowed the motor vehicle to run wild about the streets.

Several persons had narrow escapes from being injured and two horses were knocked down by the big cab with no one to guide it. Another horse ran away from fright. The police reserves were sent for, and altogether there was considerable excitement.

Mr. Newton wrote a lively story of the happening, and sent Larry back to the office with it. Then he sat down in the store to await developments. They were not long in coming, for, pretty soon, the strikers upset a cab. So, when Larry got back, there was another batch of copy waiting for him.

“Plenty of stories!” cried Mr. Emberg.

Newsboys brought several copies of the Leader around to the headquarters of the cab firm that afternoon, and the story of the morning’s happenings was eagerly read by the strikers.