IT WAS THE LAST SHOT. AS HE FIRED IT LARRY LEAPED TO ONE SIDE TO ESCAPE THE LION’S CLAWS.

LARRY DEXTER,
REPORTER

OR

STRANGE ADVENTURES IN A
GREAT CITY

BY
HOWARD R. GARIS

AUTHOR OF “FROM OFFICE BOY TO REPORTER,” “THE ISLE OF BLACK FIRE,” “THE WHITE CRYSTALS,” ETC., ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

New York
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers

Copyright, 1907, by
CHATTERTON-PECK CO.
Larry Dexter, the Young Reporter

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I. [A Reporter’s Mistake] 1 II. [Amateur Night] 10 III. [On Track of a Deal] 19 IV. [On a Chowder Party] 28 V. [Man Overboard!] 36 VI. [Larry in Danger] 45 VII. [Larry Has an Offer] 53 VIII. [The Agent’s Proposition] 61 IX. [The Big Safe-Robbery] 69 X. [Working up the Clew] 78 XI. [A Search for the Blue Hand] 86 XII. [Larry Meets His Old Enemy] 94 XIII. [In Which the Deed is Missing] 102 XIV. [A Strange Offer] 111 XV. [Sign of the Blue Hand] 119 XVI. [A Vain Quest] 127 XVII. [Setting a Trap] 136 XVIII. [Election Night] 145 XIX. [A Queer Letter] 155 XX. [Solving the Cipher] 162 XXI. [The Gas Explosion] 170 XXII. [A Family Heirloom] 178 XXIII. [Mysterious Notes] 186 XXIV. [The Circus] 195 XXV. [The Last Warning] 204 XXVI. [Larry’s Narrow Escape] 212 XXVII. [Jimmy is Missed] 221 XXVIII. [An Anxious Search] 230 XXIX. [In the Enemy’s Power] 238 XXX. [Jimmy Held Captive] 247 XXXI. [Searching for the Lost] 255 XXXII. [In Quest of Peter] 263 XXXIII. [On the Right Track] 271 XXXIV. [Closing In] 279 XXXV. [Nearing the End] 288 XXXVI. [The Raid] 296 XXXVII. [What the Old Deed Brought] 304

INTRODUCTION

My Dear Boys.—Those of you who were interested in the first story of this series, telling how Larry Dexter rose from a copy boy to become a reporter, may desire to follow his further adventures as a newspaper worker. Many of the occurrences told of in this volume are actual ones. In some I participated personally. In others newspaper friends of mine were concerned, though I have made some slight changes from what actually happened.

The tracing of the blue-handed man, who blew open the safe by means of nitro-glycerine, is an actual fact, having taken place in the city where I live. He was arrested afterwards because a detective observed the stains left by the acid on his fingers. The riot in Chinatown is similar to several that have occurred there, and kidnappings, such as befell Jimmy, are common enough in New York. There are few reporters, especially on the large papers, who have not gone through as thrilling incidents as those which happened to Larry, for, as I can vouch from many years’ experience, a newspaper man’s life is anything but a quiet and uneventful one.

Yours sincerely, Howard R. Garis.

July 1, 1907.

LARRY DEXTER,
REPORTER

CHAPTER I
A REPORTER’S MISTAKE

“Copy!”

The city editor’s voice rang out sharply, and he held in his extended hand a bunch of paper, without lifting his eyes from the story he was going over with a correcting pencil. There was no answer save the clicking of half a score of typewriters, at which sat busy reporters.

“Copy!” cried the editor once more. There was a shuffle among a trio of boys on the far side of the room.

“Copy! copy!” fairly shouted the exasperated editor, as he shook the papers, looking up from his work towards the boys who were now advancing together on a run. “What’s the matter with all of you? Getting deaf, or are you tired of work? When you hear ‘Copy’ called at this time of day you want to jump! Now all the way up to the composing room with that, Bud. It’s got to make the first edition!”

“Yes, sir!” exclaimed Bud Nelson, head copy boy on the New York Daily Leader, one of the largest afternoon papers of the metropolis, as he raced upstairs to where the clicking type-setting machines were in noisy operation.

“You boys must be more lively,” went on Mr. Bruce Emberg, the city editor. “This is not a playroom nor a kindergarten. You must learn to jump up whenever you hear the assistant city editor or myself call ‘Copy.’ I make some allowances for you boys who have not been here long, but it must not occur again.”

The two remaining lads went back to their bench looking a little startled, for, though Mr. Emberg was a kind man, he could be severe when there was occasion for it.

“Did he give you a laying-out?” asked Bud, of his companions, when he returned.

“I just guess yes,” replied Charles Anderson, the tallest of the copy boys. “You ought to have heard him!”

“I was so busy telling you fellows about the party last night I didn’t hear him call,” said Bud. “We’ll have to be more careful, or we’ll lose our jobs.”

“Copy!” called the editor again, and this time the three reached the desk almost at the same instant.

“That’s the way to do it,” remarked Mr. Emberg. “That’s what I like to see.”

For the next few minutes there was a busy scene in the city room of the Leader. Reporters were writing like mad on their typewriters, and rushing with the loose sheets of paper over to the desk of the city editor or his assistant. These, and two copy readers, rapidly scanned the stories, made whatever corrections were necessary, put headings, or “heads,” as they are called, on them, and gave them to the copy boys.

The lads ran out to the pneumatic tube that shot the copy to the composing room, or, in case of an important story, took it upstairs themselves so that it would receive immediate attention from the foreman.

The boys were running to and fro, as if in training for a race, typewriters were clicking as fast as though the operators were in a speed contest, the editors were slashing whole pages from stories to make them shorter, and the copy readers were doing likewise.

“Hurry up that stuff, Jones!” exclaimed the editor to one reporter. “You’ve only got two minutes!”

“Here it is!” cried Jones, yanking the last page from his typewriter.

For two minutes there was a wilder scene of activity than ever. Then came a comparatively quiet spell.

“That’s all we can make for the first,” remarked the editor, with something like a breath of relief. “We did pretty well.”

The editor looked over a book that lay open in front of him on his desk. The cover was marked “Assignments,” and it was the volume in which memoranda of all the items that were to be gotten that day appeared. The editor glanced down the page.

“Here, Larry!” he called to a tall, good-looking youth, who was seated at a small desk. “Get this obituary, will you? It’s about a man over on the West Side. He was ninety-eight years old, and belonged to a well-known New York family.”

“Shall I get his picture?” asked Larry Dexter, as he came forward to go out on the assignment.

“No, we haven’t time to make it to-day. Just get a brief sketch of his life. Hurry back.”

Larry got his hat from the coat room, and left the office. He was the newest reporter on the Leader. The other reporters spoke of him as the “cub,” not meaning anything disrespectful, but only to indicate that he was the “freshman,” the apprentice, or whatever one considers the beginner in any line of work. Larry was a sort of fledgling at the business, though he had been on the Leader a number of months.

He began as a copy boy, just like one of the lads whom Mr. Emberg had cautioned about being in a hurry. Larry, with his mother, his sisters, Lucy, aged thirteen, and Mary, aged five, and his brother, James, lived in a fairly good tenement in New York City. They had come there from the village of Campton, New York, where Larry’s father, who had been dead a few years, once owned a fine farm. But reverses had overtaken the family, and some time after Mr. Dexter’s death the place was sold at auction.

When the place had been disposed of, Mrs. Dexter desired to come to New York to live with her sister, Mrs. Edward Ralston. But, as related in the first volume of this series, entitled, “From Office Boy to Reporter; or, The First Step in Journalism,” when Mrs. Dexter, with Larry and the other children, reached the big city, they found that Mrs. Ralston’s husband had been killed a few days before in an accident. Mrs. Ralston, writing a hasty letter to her sister, had gone to live with other relatives in a distant state.

But Mrs. Dexter did not receive this letter on time, in consequence of having hastily undertaken the journey from Campton, and so did not hear of her sister’s loss until she reached the house where Mrs. Ralston had lived. The travelers made the best of it, however, and were cared for by kind neighbors.

Larry soon secured work as an office, or copy, boy on the Leader, through one day being able to help Harvey Newton, one of the best reporters on the paper, at an exciting fire.

In those days Larry had trouble with Peter Manton, a rival copy boy, and he was kidnapped by some electric cab strikers who thought he was a reporter they wanted to pay off an old score on. The lad and Mr. Newton were sent to report a big flood in another part of the state, where the big dam broke, and where many persons were in danger of being drowned.

While in the flooded district Larry met his old enemy, Peter, and there was a race between them to see who would get some copy, telling of the flood, to the telegraph office first. Larry won, and for this good work was promoted from an office boy to be a regular reporter. In the course of his duties as a copy boy he once saved a valuable watch from being stolen by pickpockets from a celebrated doctor, and the physician, in his gratitude, operated on Larry’s sister Lucy, who suffered from a bad spinal disease, and cured her.

This made the family feel much happier, as now Lucy could go about like other girls, and did not have to spend many hours in a big chair. Larry’s advancement also brought him a larger salary, so there was no further need for Mrs. Dexter to take in sewing. They were able also to move to a better apartment, though not far from where they had first settled.

Larry was able to put a little money in the bank, to add to the nest-egg of one thousand dollars which he received as a reward for finding the Reynolds jewels, though the thieves were not apprehended.

Larry had been acting in his new position as reporter about eight months when, on the morning that our story opens, he was sent to get the obituary of the aged man. In this time he had learned much that he never knew before, and which would not have come to him in his capacity as copy boy. He had, as yet, been given only easy work, for though he had shown “a nose for news,” as it is called, which means an ability to know a story when it comes one’s way, Mr. Emberg felt the “cub” had better go a bit slow.

The young reporter managed to get what information he wanted without much trouble. He came back to the office, and wrote it up by hand, for he had not learned yet to use a typewriter. While he was engaged on the “obit,” as death accounts are called for brevity, he had his eyes opened to something which stood him in good stead the rest of his life.

The first editions of other New York afternoon papers, all rivals of the Leader, had come into the Leader office. Mr. Emberg was glancing over them to see if his sheet had been beaten on any stories; that is, whether any of the other journals had stories which the Leader did not have, or better ones than those on similar subjects that appeared in the Leader.

“Hello! What’s this?” the city editor exclaimed, suddenly. “Here’s a big story of a fight at that Eleventh Ward political meeting, in the Scorcher. Who covered that meeting for us?”

“I did,” replied a tall, thin youth.

“Did you have anything good in your story?” the editor asked.

“No—no, sir,” stammered the youth, as he saw the angry look on the editor’s face.

“Why not?”

“Because there wasn’t any meeting,” replied the luckless scribe. “It broke up in a free fight!”

“It what?” fairly roared the city editor.

“It broke up in a fight. The candidates tried to speak, but the crowd wouldn’t let ’em. They called ’em names, and then they made a rush, and upset the stand, and there was a free fight. I couldn’t hear any of the speeches, so I came away.”

“You what?” asked the editor, trying to speak calmly. The room seemed strangely quiet.

“I came away. I thought you sent me to report the political meeting, but there wasn’t any. It broke up in a fight,” repeated the reporter.

“I thought you said you were a newspaper man,” the city editor remarked. “I wouldn’t have hired you if I knew you had had no experience.”

“I did have some. I—I,” began the unfortunate one.

“It must have been as society scribbler on the Punktown Monthly Pink Tea Gazette,” exclaimed Mr. Emberg. “Why, you don’t know enough about the business to report a Sunday school picnic.

“If you were sent to a house to get an account of a wedding,” went on Mr. Emberg, “and while there the house should burn down, and all the people be killed, I suppose you would come back and say there wasn’t any wedding, it was a fire! Would you?”

“No—no, sir.”

“Well, I guess you would! I don’t believe you’re cut out for the newspaper business. The idea of not reporting a meeting because it broke up in a fight! It’s enough to make—but never mind! You can go to the cashier and get what money is coming to you. We can’t afford to have mistakes like that occur. This is the best story in many a day. Why, they must have had a regular riot up there, according to the Scorcher. Here, Smith,” the city editor went on, turning to an older reporter, “see what there is in this, and fix up a story,” and Mr. Emberg handed over the article he had clipped from the rival paper. It was a bad beat on the Leader.

“I hope I never make a mistake like that,” thought Larry, as he turned in his article. “My, that was a call-down!”

CHAPTER II
AMATEUR NIGHT

The unfortunate reporter who had made the mistake, and who had been discharged in consequence, left the room. He had gained his position under somewhat false pretenses, and so there was little sympathy felt for him.

“We don’t want careless work on the Leader,” went on Mr. Emberg, speaking to no one in particular. “We want the news, and those who have no noses for it had better look alive. We’re in the news business, and that’s what we have to give the people.”

The reporter, to whom Mr. Emberg had given the clipping, soon ascertained that, in the main, it was correct. So a story was made up concerning the Eleventh Ward meeting, and run in the second edition of the Leader, much to the disgust of the city editor, who hated to be “beaten.”

The rebuke the unfortunate reporter received produced a feeling of uneasiness among the others on the staff of the Leader, and there were many whispered conferences among the men that afternoon. However the “ax” did not fall again, much to the relief of several who knew they had not been doing as well as they might—the “ax” being the reporter’s slang for getting discharged.

When the last edition had been run off on the thundering presses in the basement, the reporters gathered in small groups in different parts of the room, and began talking over the events of the day. Larry saw his friend Harvey Newton come in from an assignment.

“How did you make out to-day, Larry?” asked Mr. Newton.

“Pretty fair,” responded the boy. “I didn’t have any big stories, though.”

“They’ll come in time. Better go slow and sure.”

“Did you strike anything good?”

“Not much. I’ve been down to City Hall all day, working on a tip I got of some land deal a political gang is trying to put through. Something about a big tract in the Bronx, but I didn’t land it.”

The remark made Larry stop and think. He remembered his mother had, among her papers, a deed to some land in that section of New York City called the Bronx, because it was near a small river of that name. The land had been taken by Mr. Dexter in connection with some deal, and had never been considered of any value. One day, as told in the previous volume, Mrs. Dexter was about to destroy the old deed, but Larry restrained her. He thought the land might some day be of value. So the document was put away.

When Mr. Newton spoke Larry wondered if, by any chance, the land the reporter mentioned as being that over which a political deal was being made, could be located near that which was represented by the old deed. He made up his mind to speak of it some time.

It was now about four o’clock, and, as the reporters went off duty in half an hour, Mr. Emberg was busy over the assignment book.

The Leader was an afternoon paper, but sometimes there were things occurring at night that had to be “covered” or attended to in order to get an account of them for the next day. Usually only very important events were covered at night by the Leader, since the morning papers, or news associations, got accounts of them.

Mr. Emberg came over toward Larry with a slip of paper in his hand.

“How would you like to try your hand at a funny story?” the city editor asked the boy.

“I’d like to, only I don’t know that I could do it. What sort of a story is it?”

“Amateur night at a theater. Did you ever see one?”

Larry said he had not, and Mr. Emberg explained that the managers of certain cheap theaters, in order to get some variety, frequently had amateur nights at their playhouses. They would allow any one who came along to go on the stage between the acts of the regular performance, and sing, dance, recite, do feats of strength, or whatever the amateur considered his specialty.

The audience, for the most part made up of young men and women, seldom had much sympathy to waste on the amateurs, and it must be a very brave youth or maiden who essayed to do a “stunt” under the circumstances.

“Here are two tickets to the Jollity Theater,” said Mr. Emberg. “Go up there to-night, take someone with you if you like, and give us a good funny story to-morrow.”

Larry was delighted at being able to go to the theater without paying, but he was a little doubtful of his ability to do the story. However, he resolved to try. He told his mother of it at supper last night.

“I’ll take Jimmy with me,” said Larry.

“I’m afraid your brother’s too young to go out, as you will have to stay rather late,” said Mrs. Dexter. “Can’t you take Harry Lake?” referring to a boy who lived on the floor below the Dexter apartments.

“I guess I will,” replied the young reporter, and soon he and Harry were on their way to the theater.

The play was one of the usual melodramatic sort but to Larry and Harry it was very interesting. They watched eagerly through the first act, as did hundreds around them, but there was more interest displayed when the manager came before the curtain.

He announced that a number of amateurs had come to go through their various “turns,” and added that they would be allowed to stay and amuse the audience as long as the latter seemed to care for the offerings. When too much displeasure was manifested the performers would be obliged to withdraw, being forcibly reminded to leave, sometimes, by being pulled from the boards by a long-handled hook which the stage hands stuck out from the wings, or sides of the stage.

“Johnny Carroll, in a song and dance specialty,” announced the manager as the first number, and then he retired to give place to Johnny. The latter proved to be a tall, thin youth, who shuffled out upon the stage and stood there looking about rather sheepishly.

“Ladies an’ gen’men,” he began in such weak tones that someone shouted:

“Take your voice out yer pocket!”

“I’m goin’ t’ dance a jig!” cried Johnny, defiantly, and the orchestra struck up a lively tune. Three times the young performer tried to get into step, but something seemed to be the matter with his feet, for they would not jig. A general laugh ran around.

“I’m goin’ t’ sing!” cried Johnny, in desperation. “I’ll give you that latest song success, entitled, ‘Give Me Another Transfer, This One Has Expired,’” and the orchestra began playing the opening strains. Johnny opened his mouth to sing, but, as his voice was rather less harmonious than a crow’s, he was met with howls of laughter.

“T’ou’t ye was goin’ t’ sing!” someone in the top gallery shouted.

“Give me a chanst!” pleaded the performer.

“Get the hook! Get the hook!” shouted several, and out from the wings came an instrument like a shepherd’s crook. Johnny was removed from the stage, protesting in vain.

“Sammy Snipe will play the mouth organ,” announced the manager, and Sammy came on. He seemed to be an old hand at the turn, for he entered with an air of confidence, and was greeted with some applause. He lost no time in talking, but began to play, and made not unmusical sounds on the harmonica. He made a “hit” with the audience, and there were no discouraging remarks. Sammy played several popular airs, and then tried to play a jig and dance it at the same time. Sammy would have done better, however, to have stopped when he had the approval of his audience. Unfortunately he could not divide his attention between his playing and his dancing. While he could do either separately, when he essayed both he found he had tried to cover too much territory. He started off on a lively air, but, no sooner had he danced a few steps, than he forgot to keep playing, and he soon lost time. Then he tried to start dancing, and come in with the music when he had the jig going well. This, too, failed, for he soon forgot to dance, and only played.

“Take him away; he’s no good!” the audience shouted, and then came the fatal call: “Get the hook!” and Sammy was removed.

Next a young woman appeared who tried to recite “Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night!” The audience either had no regard for the curfew, or did not care to hear anything tragic. The young woman got as far as the third line when there was a series of groans that indicated anything but enjoyment.

“Ding-dong! Ten o’clock! Time’s up!” called someone, and the performer retired in confusion.

Larry and Harry were enjoying the efforts of the amateurs more than they had the real show. They were anxious for the second act to be over to see what the unprofessional performers would offer next.

When the curtain was rung down the second time, leaving the heroine in great trouble and distress, the next amateur performer was another young woman who wanted to recite. She selected “Paul Revere’s Ride,” and began in a loud tone: “Listen, my Children——” but she had only gone that far when someone in a high falsetto voice called out:

“Oh mercy, mother, did you put the cat out, and lock the door?”

This was too much for the elocutionist, and she rushed off the stage in confusion. Next appeared a tall young man with light hair, and a purple necktie, who tried to sing: “Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming.” He managed to make himself heard through two lines, and then such a chorus of yells, whistles, and cat-calls, mingled with “Get the hook!” broke out, that he had to stand helpless. He was game, however, and Larry could see, by the motion of the youth’s lips, that the performer was going through with the song. But not a sound of it was heard, and there was no second verse.

This was followed by two boys who managed to get through some buck and wing dancing, winning hearty applause. Next there was a youth who essayed a tumbling act.

He, too, seemed to please, and did not get the “hook.” Not so fortunate, however, was the following performer, who was announced as a “strong man.”

Several stage hands carried a number of heavy weights out on the boards. The “strong man” in pink tights, making several bows, lifted a few dumb-bells.

“Aw, I kin do that meself!” exclaimed a disgusted newsboy, leaning far over the edge of the gallery. “Do a hard one, or go back home.”

The performer next tackled a big dumb-bell that must have weighed several hundred pounds. Either he had underestimated its heft, or he had overestimated his powers, for he could not budge it. He strained and tugged, but the bell did not move.

“Fake! No good! Get the hook!” were some of the cries that greeted the man.

He was pulled from the stage by some of the hands, and two of them came on to move the weights. Then it was disclosed that a trick had been played on the “strong” man for the big dumb-bell was merely made of wood, painted to resemble iron. It had been fastened to the floor with hooks, which accounted for the inability of the performer to move it.

One of the stage hands, unfastening the bell, lifted it easily with one hand. Then the laughter broke out louder than ever, Larry and Harry joining in.

Between the third and fourth acts other amateurs appeared. Some did fairly well, but most of them had a bad attack of stage fright, or were scared by the remarks made to them by the audience. Altogether it was a funny experience.

Larry was so anxious to make a good story that he sat up after he reached home that night, and wrote it out, just as he had seen it. He gave it a lively touch, and made the most of the situations. It was with some anxiousness, however, that he placed the story on Mr. Emberg’s desk the next morning.

CHAPTER III
ON TRACK OF A DEAL

“What’s this?” asked the city editor.

“That story of amateur night,” replied Larry.

“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten all about it. I’m glad you have the copy in early, as I want you to make a quick trip out of town.”

“Any more floods?” asked Larry, thinking of the big one he had helped cover when he was a copy boy.

“Not this time; this is only to take a run over to New Jersey, to a little town called Cranford.”

“What’s the matter out there?”

“I want you to see Professor Allen. He is to deliver a lecture at the dinner of the Engineers’ Club to-night, and he has promised a copy of his remarks in advance.”

Larry was soon on his way, crossing the Hudson River on the ferry to the New Jersey side, where he took a train for Cranford. He found Professor Allen’s house without much trouble, and inquired for the gentleman.

“I don’t believe you can see him,” replied the girl who answered the door.

“Why not; isn’t he at home?” asked Larry.

“Well, he is and he isn’t,” replied the servant. “You see he’s out in his laboratory making experiments, which is what he’s most always up to, and he hasn’t been in to his meals for a week.”

“Hasn’t he eaten for a week?” asked Larry, in some surprise.

“Oh, bless your heart, of course he’s eaten, but he will not come to the table. His wife has to go out to the laboratory with a plate of victuals and a cup of coffee, and fairly feed him.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Oh, you see he’s working on a new invention.”

“What sort?” asked Larry, thinking he might get a story out of it.

“Don’t ask me,” cried the servant, with a laugh, for she evidently took Larry for some boy on an errand. “It’s all about wheels and levers and steam and electricity. As near as I can get at, it’s a plan to make an automobile out of a tea kettle.”

“Don’t you suppose I could see the professor?” asked the young reporter.

“Well, you can try,” said the girl. “The laboratory is that small white building down at the far end of the yard. Go down there, and walk right in. If you knock he’ll never answer. Mrs. Allen has just fed him his breakfast, and perhaps he’ll talk to you a little.”

Larry decided this was the only way of securing what he wanted, so he made his way to the laboratory, and, remembering the injunction, entered the door and walked in.

He found himself in a large room, fairly filled with machinery and appliances of all kinds. Overhead there were shafts and pulleys, while all about the sides were benches, lathes, wheels, levers, handles, and springs of various sorts.

Down in one corner was an elderly gentleman, in rather an old and ragged suit, at work over a bench. He did not look up as Larry entered, but called out:

“Come here and give me a hand with this. I’m in a hurry.”

Larry looked around to see if the professor could be speaking to anyone else, but, finding that he was the only one in the room besides the scientist, the lad concluded he was the one addressed.

“Hurry, please,” added Mr. Allen, looking straight at Larry. “I am in the midst of an important experiment.”

Thereupon Larry went to the bench. Mr. Allen was holding one end of a long steel tube from which radiated several smaller tubes of glass. At one end of the steel tube was a rubber pipe which was attached to a gas jet, and at the other end of the tube there was another pipe which was fastened to a water faucet.

“Turn on the gas a little more, and then help me hold this tube,” spoke the scientist. “I am generating steam.”

He spoke as though it was the most natural thing in the world for Larry to be there, and give him assistance. Larry recognized that Mr. Allen was too much absorbed in his experiment to care who helped him, so the boy lent a hand.

Larry turned the gas on, and then grasped one end of the tube. Mr. Allen held the other. There was a curious rumbling sound, followed by a roar.

“Duck! She’s going to explode again!” cried Mr. Allen, dropping his end of the tube, and crawling under a table. Larry lost no time in following his example. The next instant there was a loud report, and pieces of the tube and rubber hose were flying in all directions.

“It’s all over, you can come out now,” remarked the scientist, in a quiet voice, a few seconds later.

“Does it often act that way?” inquired Larry, earnestly.

“That’s the twenty-seventh time it has blown up,” replied the professor. “I guess the glass is not strong enough for the steam.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?” ventured Larry.

“Dangerous? Of course it is! That’s what I expect in this business. But I have another tube here, and we’ll try it again. Just take your coat off, and help me.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t time,” replied the reporter. “I’m from the New York Daily Leader. I came to get a copy of your speech.”

“What’s that?” inquired Mr. Allen, sharply.

Larry repeated his statement more fully.

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the professor. “I took you for my assistant’s son. He often helps me. I didn’t get a good look at you, I was so busy thinking about this steam problem. I hope you were not hurt when the explosion came.”

“Not a bit,” replied Larry.

“Father! Father! Are you injured?” cried a voice, and a woman, much excited, hurried into the laboratory.

“Not a bit, my dear, not a bit,” replied the professor, as he brushed the dust from his clothes. “Another tube blew up, that’s all,” and he seemed as cheerful as though the experiment had succeeded.

“Oh, those horrible, dangerous steam tubes!” exclaimed the lady. Then she saw Larry, and, observing he was a stranger, was about to withdraw.

“This is a reporter from the New York Leader,” explained the scientist. “He has come for a copy of my speech, and it’s a good thing he did. I had forgotten all about delivering it to-night. I guess I’ll go in the house, and get ready. Come with me,” he added to Larry, “and I’ll get the copy for you.”

“Thank goodness something happened to make him come back to civilization,” remarked the lady to Larry, as they walked toward the house. “He has slept in that laboratory, and taken his meals there ever since he started on this latest idea. It’s a good thing you came along, and awakened him to some realization that there’s something in this world besides those terrible steam tubes.”

“Perhaps the explosion did,” ventured Larry.

“That? It would take more than an explosion,” the lady, who was Mr. Allen’s daughter, replied. “He’s used to them.”

Larry went into the house, where, after some search, Mr. Allen found a copy of his remarks, which he gave to the young reporter.

“Come out and see me again some day,” the scientist invited Larry. “We’ll try that experiment again.”

“I’m afraid once is enough for me,” said Larry, with a smile.

He reached his office shortly after noon, and, handing in the copy of the speech, which had been gotten in advance, so as to be set up ready for the next day’s paper. Then he reported at the desk, announcing to Mr. Emberg that he was ready for another assignment.

“Take a run down to City Hall,” said the city editor. “Mr. Newton is covering it to-day, but he is busy on a story, and he telephoned in he had no time to make all the rounds of the offices. Just see if there are any routine matters he had to overlook.”

It was the first time Larry had ever been assigned to the municipal building alone. He was familiar with most of the offices and knew some of the officials by sight, as Mr. Newton had frequently taken him around to “learn him the ropes,” as he said. So Larry felt not a little elated, and began to dream of the time when he might have important assignments, such as looking after city matters and politics, matters to which New York papers pay great attention.

Larry went into several offices at the hall, and found there was no news. It was rather a dull day along municipal and political lines, and there were few reporters around the building. Larry knew some of them, who nodded to him in a friendly way, and asked him whether there was “anything new,” a reporter’s manner of inquiring for news.

As Larry had nothing he said so, it being a sort of unwritten law among newspaper men not to beat each other on routine assignments, unless there was some special story they were after.

It was almost closing hour at the hall, and within a few minutes of the time the Leader’s last edition went to press, that Larry entered the anteroom of the City Comptroller’s office. He hardly expected there would be any news, and he knew if there was it was almost too late for that day. However, he was tired, and, as there were comfortable chairs in the office, he resolved to have a few minutes’ rest, while waiting to see the official or the chief clerk to ask if there was anything new.

It was while sitting there, with his chair tilted back against a thin partition, that Larry overheard voices in somewhat loud conversation. At first he paid little attention to the matter. But when one of the voices became quite loud he could not help hearing.

“I tell you I’ve got the whole plan outlined, and we can all make big money by it,” someone remarked. “I know the lay of the land. It’s up in the Bronx.”

At that Larry began to take some notice, as he remembered he and his mother were interested in some Bronx property.

“The deal is going through, then?” asked another man.

“Sure.”

Now Larry had no intention of eavesdropping, and, if he had thought the conversation was of a private nature, he would have moved away. But it seemed the men had nothing to conceal, for they talked loudly. They were probably unaware that a transom over the door of the room where they were, was open.

“What makes you so sure the land will be valuable?” asked another voice.

“Because I know it,” came the answer from the one who had first spoken. “There’s going to be an ordinance introduced in the Common Council soon. Now all we have to do is to buy up all the lots——” What followed was in a low tone, and Larry could not hear. Then the voice went on: “It’s a great game, for it will take our votes to pass the ordinance, see?”

“Won’t there be some danger?” asked someone.

“Not a bit. There’s only one hitch. I’ve been looking the thing up, and I find that the most valuable strip of land in the whole tract is owned by some man up New York State.”

“Who is he?”

“Something like Pexter or Wexter,” was the reply, whereat Larry felt his heart beating strongly. Suppose it should happen to be the land for which his mother held the deed?

“Can we put the deal through?” several asked of the man who was doing the most talking.

“Sure we can,” was the answer. “Alderman——”

“Hush! Not so loud!” cautioned a voice.

“Close that transom,” ordered someone, and then Larry moved away, fearing the men might come out, and find him listening. He wanted to know more of the matter, for he felt sure some underhanded game was afoot.

That afternoon, on the way home, Larry told Mr. Newton of what he had heard.

“I’ll bet there’s some sort of a deal on,” said the older reporter. “Glad you happened to overhear that, Larry. I’ll get busy on the tip, and maybe we can block the game.”

CHAPTER IV
ON A CHOWDER PARTY

“I’ve got a little trip out of town for you, Larry,” said Mr. Emberg the next morning. “There will not be much work attached to it, unless something unexpected happens.”

“What sort of an assignment is it?” asked Larry.

“The Eighth Ward Democratic Club is going to have an outing to Coney Island,” replied the city editor. “It’s a clam chowder party, and, while it is mainly to give the members of the association a good time, there may be some politics discussed.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about politics,” answered Larry, somewhat doubtful of his ability to cover that kind of an assignment.

“You’ll never learn any younger,” was Mr. Emberg’s rejoinder, as he smiled at Larry. “Get me a good story of what the men do, and I guess you’ll not miss much. There are going to be some games down at the beach, in the afternoon, races and so on, that may make something funny to write about.”

Mr. Emberg gave Larry a ticket to the chowder outing, and told him where to take the boat.

“You’re in luck, kid,” remarked one of the older reporters, as he saw the “cub” start on his assignment.

“How so?” asked Larry.

“Why, there’s nothing to do except enjoy the trip, eat a good dinner, and sit off in the shade in the afternoon. It’s one of the few decent things we fall into in this business.”

“Well, if I can get a good story that’s all I care about,” responded Larry, who had not been a reporter long enough to lose his early enthusiasm. He was always looking for a chance to get a good story, and no less on this occasion when there was not much of an opportunity.

Larry made his way to the dock whence the boat was to leave. He found a crowd of men at the wharf, all of them wearing gaily-colored badges, for the Eighth Ward Democratic Club was one of the most influential and largest political organizations in New York.

At the dock all was hurry and excitement. A band was playing lively airs, and a number of fat men were wiping the perspiration from their brows, for it was August, and a hot day, and they had marched half-way around the ward before coming to the boat.

Scores of men were piling good things to eat on the boat, for political outings seem to be always regarded as hungry affairs. Larry saw a number of other reporters whom he knew slightly, and spoke to them. Soon all the newspaper men formed a crowd among themselves, and found a comfortable place on the boat, where they sat and talked “shop.”

The older reporters discussed politics, and the younger ones conversed about the assignments they had recently covered. For, curiously enough, though a reporter sees much of life of various sorts that might furnish topics of conversation, no sooner do two or more of them get together than they begin discussions of matters connected directly with their work. Perhaps this is so because everything in life concerns reporters, more or less.

Lunch was served on the boat when it was about half-way to the Island, and Larry thought he never had tasted anything so good, for the salt air made him very hungry. Then such a dinner as there was when the grove where the club held its outings was reached.

There was a regular old-fashioned clam chowder and clam-bake in preparation. First came the chowder, which, instead of taking the edges from sharp appetites, seemed only to increase them. Then the members of the club and their friends strolled about, sat under trees, or gathered in little groups to talk, while the clam-bake was being made ready.

Larry thought perhaps he had better go about, and see if he could pick up any political tips. He spoke about it to one of the other reporters, but the latter said:

“There, now, don’t worry about that, Larry. The only time when politics will crop out, if they do at all, is after they’ve had their dinners. That will loosen their tongues, and we may pick up something.”

So Larry decided he might spend some time watching the men prepare the clam-bake.

First they built a big fire of wood in a sort of hollow in the ground. The blaze was so hot it was most uncomfortable to go close to it, but the cook and his assistants did not appear to mind it. They put scores of stones in the blaze, and the cobbles were soon glowing with the heat. Occasionally one would crack, and the pieces flew all about.

“Ever get hit?” asked Larry, of the cook.

“Once or twice, but I’m getting so I can dodge ’em now.”

Just then came another crack, and the cook ducked quickly, as a large piece of stone flew over his head. He laughed, and Larry joined him. When the stones were hot enough the men raked away the charred wood and embers, and then piled the stones up in a round heap. They were so hot that the men had to use long-handled rakes and pitchforks.

On top of the cobbles was thrown a quantity of wet seaweed, which sent up a cloud of vapor. Then the cook and his helpers began piling on top of the steaming weed bushels of clams, scores of lobsters, whole chickens, crabs, potatoes, corn on the cob, and other things. Then the whole mass was covered with more seaweed, and over all a big canvas was spread.

“There, now, it will cook in about an hour,” said the cook, who seemed to have removed considerable anxiety from his mind.

“Don’t you build more fire on it?” asked Larry, who had never been at a clam-bake.

“Not a bit. The hot stones do all the cooking now,” responded the cook.

And so it proved, for in about an hour the canvas was taken off, the weed removed, and there the whole mass of victuals was cooked to a turn. The men gathered around the table, places were found for the reporters, and the feast began. Larry ate so many clams, and so much lobster and chicken, that he feared he would not be able to hold a pencil to take notes, providing anyone was left alive to write about. Everyone seemed to be trying to outdo his neighbor in the amount of food consumed.

But it was a healthful way in which to dine, and no ill effects seemed to follow the clam-bake. An hour’s rest in the shade followed, and then it was announced that the games would be started.

A sack race was the first on the programme, and the contestants, of whom there were eight, allowed themselves to be tied up in bags, which reached to their necks. At the word they started to waddle toward the goal.

There was one very fat man and one thin one who seemed to be doing better than any of the others. They both took little steps inside the bags, and were distancing their competitors.

“Go it, Fatty!” called the stout man’s friends.

“You’ll win, Skinny!” shouted the advocates of the tall, thin one.

The latter began to forge ahead, and, it seemed, would win the race.

“Lie down and roll!” shouted someone to the fat man.

“Dot’s a good ideaness!” answered the fleshy contestant, who spoke with a strong German accent.

He fell upon his knees, and then toppled over on his side on the green grass over which the course was laid. There was a general laugh, most persons thinking the man had fallen, and was out of the race. But not so with the fleshy one. He began rolling over and over, his rotundity and the soft sod preventing him from being hurt. He kept his head away from the ground, and, so rapidly did he revolve that, inside of two minutes he had passed the thin man. The latter in his efforts to come in first took too long steps, his feet got tangled up inside the sack, and he went sprawling on his face.

“I vins!” exclaimed the German, as he rolled over for the last time, and bumped into the goal post.

“You didn’t win fair!” cried the thin man, trying to talk with his mouth filled with grass.

“Shure I dit!” the fleshy one exclaimed. “Vat’s der rules?”

“That’s right, he wins under the rules,” announced the man in charge of the games. “Contestants could walk, run, or roll. Fatty wins and gets the prize.”

“Vot iss dot prize?” asked the German, while some of his friends took him out of the bag.

“This beautiful medal,” replied the man in charge, and he handed the winner a large one made of leather, on which was burned a picture of a donkey. There was a burst of laughter, in which the butt of the joke had to join.

After this came a potato race, in which each contestant had to carry the tubers one at a time, in a spoon, and the one who brought the most to the goal received five dollars. Following there was a wheelbarrow contest, in which the smallest members of the club were obliged to wheel the largest and fattest ones. It was hard on the thin men, but the others appeared to enjoy it.

A swimming race to see who could catch a greased duck caused lots of fun. The men put on bathing suits, and scores of them went into the water.

“Don’t some of you reporters want to join the sport?” asked one of the entertainment committee. Some of the newspaper men did, and said so. Larry resolved to enter, for he was a good swimmer. Soon he had borrowed a suit, and was splashing around with the others. All was in readiness for the contest. The duck was released at the far side of a small cove, the swimmers starting from the opposite shore.

Such shouting, laughing, splashing, and sport as there was! Half the men had no intention of catching the duck, but, instead, took the opportunity of ducking some of their companions under water. Larry had no idea of catching the fowl, since he saw several men try, and lose their grip because of the oil on the duck’s feathers.

“Five dollars to whoever catches the bird!” shouted a man on shore, watching the struggle. At this there was a general rush for the unfortunate fowl. She was caught once or twice, but managed to slip away, leaving a few feathers behind.

“I’m going to catch her,” said Larry to himself. He waited a good opportunity when the duck was in a comparatively free space in the water. Then Larry began swimming slowly toward her. The duck did not see him approaching, and was paddling about. When about ten feet away Larry dived, and began swimming under water. He rose right under the duck, grabbed the fowl by the legs, and held her fast, swimming toward shore with his free arm.

A cheer greeted him as he waded out with the prize.

“There’s your money!” exclaimed the man who offered it, handing Larry a five-dollar gold piece.

CHAPTER V
MAN OVERBOARD!

Several other reporters gathered about Larry, who stood blushing at the attention he was attracting. He hardly knew whether to accept the money or not. One of his fellow newspaper workers saw his confusion.

“Take it,” he whispered. “It’s all in the game, and you won it fairly. I’ll keep it for you until you get dressed.”

Larry accepted the offer, and gave the money to his friend, who put it in his pocket until the lad had his clothes on once more.

There were a number of other games and sports after this, and then the members of the club, thoroughly tired out with the day’s fun, went aboard the boat for the trip home. There was not much excitement on the way back, and Larry was beginning to fear he might have missed the story.

He thought perhaps there had been politics talked which he had not overheard, and he was worried lest Mr. Emberg would think he had not properly covered the assignment.

Larry ventured to hint at this to some of the other reporters, but they all told him that, contrary to all expectations, there had been no politics worth mentioning discussed on the outing.

“Just make a general story of it,” advised the reporter who had held the money for Larry. “None of us are looking for a beat.”

So Larry made his mind easier. A little later the boat made a stop at a dock to let off several members who had decided to go the rest of the way home by train. The newspaper men, with the exception of Larry, decided, also, to go home on the railroad.

“Better come along,” they said to Larry. “You’ll get no more story.”

“Probably not,” rejoined Larry, “but I’ll stay just the same. The boss told me to keep on the job until it was over, and it isn’t over until the boat ties up at the last dock.”

“You’ll soon get over that nonsense,” said the reporter, with a laugh, as he left the craft. The boat resumed her way up the river, and Larry, who was quite tired out, was beginning to think he was to have his trouble for his pains in explicitly following instructions. There seemed no more chance for news, since most of the men were resting comfortably in chairs, or lounging half-asleep in the cabins. Even the band was too tired to play.

It was getting dusk, and Larry was wondering what time he would get home. He walked about the upper deck, and gazed off across the water.

Suddenly there sounded a commotion on the deck below him. Then came a splash in the water.

“Man overboard! Man overboard!” sung out several deckhands. “Lower a boat!”

At once the steamer was the scene of confusion. Men were running to and fro, a hurried jangle of bells came from the engine room, and the craft slackened speed.

“Turn on the searchlight!” cried someone, and soon the beams from the big glaring beacon were gleaming on the dark waters aft the boat.

“There he is, I see his head!” cried someone at the stern, casting a life buoy toward the figure of the man who had toppled over the rail.

“Who is it?”

“Who threw him in?”

“How did it happen?”

“Is he dead?”

These were a few of the confused cries that came from all parts of the steamer. But while most of the excursionists were greatly excited, the members of the crew of the craft remained calm. They quickly lowered a boat, and, by the aid of the glare from the searchlight, were able to pick out the swimming figure of the man. They headed the boat toward him, and in a little while hauled him into the small skiff. Then they rowed back to the steamer, the rail of which was crowded with anxious friends of the unlucky one.

“Did you save him?” they cried, for they could not see whether their friend was in the boat or not.

“Sure!” cried several of the crew, and one added: “He’s all the better for a little salt water!”

“This will make a good part of the story,” thought Larry, as he watched the craft drawing nearer. “I guess the other fellows will wish they had stayed aboard.”

When the skiff reached the steamer, and the crew, and rescued one, had been taken aboard, there were scores of demands to know how it all happened.

“I’ll tell you,” said the victim of the accident. “I was sleeping on two camp-stools close to the rail. I got to dreaming I was making a political speech, and I was walking up and down the platform telling the audience what a fine party the Democratic one is.

“I must have walked a little too far, for, the first thing I knew, I had stepped over the edge of the platform, and the next thing I knew I was falling. I woke up in the river, and struck out. That’s about all.”

“Lucky for you the searchlight was working,” remarked one of the man’s friends, “or you might have been on the bottom of the river by now.”

“Well, you see,” said the man, with a smile, as he wiped the water from his eyes. “I ate so many clams, lobsters, and crabs to-day that when I got down there the river thought I was a sort of a fish, and so it didn’t drown me.”

Larry made inquiry, and found out the man’s name. He made notes of the occurrence, and, the next morning, on reaching the office, wrote up a lively story of the happening.

He said nothing to Mr. Emberg about being the only reporter on the boat when the thing happened. But that afternoon, when all the other papers came out, and, like the morning issues, had no account of the rescue of the man, who was a prominent politician, the city editor said:

“I hope you weren’t ‘faking’ that story, Larry?” and Mr. Emberg looked serious, for he did not want any of the reporters to “fake,” or write untrue accounts of matters.

“No, sir, it actually happened,” said Larry, and he related how he came to be the only newspaper reporter at the scene. A little later Mr. Newton came in.

“Say,” he asked, “did we have a story of a man falling overboard on that Democratic outing? I just heard of it on the street as I was coming in.”

He had not been in that morning, being out of town on a story.

“Oh, Larry was on hand as usual,” replied the city editor, for by this time he was convinced that Larry’s account was true. “He has given us another beat.”

And so it proved, for the Leader was the only paper in New York that had an account of the incident, and nearly all of the later editions of the afternoon sheets had to use the story, copying it from the Leader.

“It was a good beat, and a good story of the outing besides,” said Mr. Emberg, shortly after the last edition had gone to press, for he liked the half-humorous manner in which Larry had written about the sack race and the other sports in which the members of the club had indulged. “You are doing fine work,” he added, at which praise Larry felt much gratified.

Things were slacking up a bit in the office, now that the paper had gone to press for the day, when one of the reporters who was looking over the front page suddenly cried out:

“Here’s a bad mistake in that account of the meeting of the County Republican Committee last night. It says Jones voted for Smith for chairman, and that’s wrong. I was there. The compositor must have made a mistake. It ought to be corrected, or it will make trouble.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late,” remarked Mr. Emberg, as he grabbed a paper to see the error. “The presses are running, and part of the last edition is off. The only way we can do is to have them smash Jones’s name, and blur it so no one can tell what it is. That’s what I’ll do.”

He tore part of the page off, marked out the name to be smashed, and called to Larry, there being no copy boys in the room then:

“Here, Larry, go down in the pressroom, and tell Dunn, the foreman, to smash that name.”

Though Larry had been on the paper some time he had never been in the pressroom. Nor did he know what the operation of smashing a name might mean, but he decided the best thing to do would be to carry the message.

He hurried down to the basement. As soon as he opened the door leading to it, down a steep flight of steps, Larry thought he had gotten into a boiler factory by mistake. The noise was deafening, and the presses were thundering away like some giant machine grinding tons of rocks to atoms.

Half-naked men were running about here and there. In one corner was a furnace full of melted lead for making the stereotype plates. Larry made his way through the maze of wheels, machinery, and presses.

He was met by a youth whose face was covered with ink.

“Where’s Mr. Dunn?” asked Larry, shouting at the top of his voice.

The youth did not bother to answer in words. He had been in the pressroom long enough to know the uselessness of trying to make himself heard above the din. He had understood Larry’s question from watching his lips, and pointed over in one corner.

There Larry found a quiet man marking something in a book.

“Mr. Emberg says to smash that name!” yelled the boy, handing over the paper. He was afraid he had not made himself heard, but Mr. Dunn seemed to comprehend, for he nodded several times, though he did not seem pleased. He hated to stop the presses, once they were running, until all the edition was off.

However, it had to be done. He left his corner, and went around the rear of the ponderous machine, where the paper, in a large roll, was fed in at one end, to emerge, folded and printed sheets, at the other. Mr. Dunn seized a rope, and yanked it. A bell rang, and the press began to slacken up.

The type from which the paper was printed was cast in one solid sheet, there being several of the sheets, just the size of a page. Each one was half-circular, and fitted around a cylinder on the press. This cylinder whirled around, and the paper, passing under it in a continuous roll, received the impressions.

Once the press was stopped Mr. Dunn crawled up into a sort of hole in front of the cylinder, Then he had the press worked slowly, until the particular page he had to reach came into view.

Next, with a hammer and chisel he smashed the name of Jones so that it was a meaningless blur. After that the press started its thundering again. The remainder of the papers would not contain the name of Jones, and so there would be no danger of that gentleman coming in and demanding an apology for a misstatement made about him. Often papers have to resort to this emergency when it is too late to correct directly in type an error that has been made.

CHAPTER VI
LARRY IN DANGER

When Larry was eating supper that night he happened to glance out of the window. He saw an unusual light in the sky, and first took it for a glow from some gas furnace or smelting works across on the Jersey shore. But, as he watched, the light grew more brilliant, and there was a cloud of smoke and a shower of sparks.

“That’s a big fire!” he exclaimed, jumping up.

“You’re not going to it, are you, Larry?” asked his mother.

“I think I’d better,” he replied. “Most of the men are working to-night, and none of them may go to the blaze. If we want a good story we must be right on the spot. So I think I’ll go, though I may find Mr. Newton or someone else covering it.”

“Well, be careful, and don’t go too near,” cautioned Mrs. Dexter, who was quite nervous.

“I’ll look out for myself,” said Larry, with all the assurance lads usually have.

“Take me to the fire, I’ll help you report it,” begged Jimmy.

“Not to-night,” answered Larry. “It’s probably a good way off, and you’d get tired.”

“Then you can carry me,” spoke the little fellow, ready to cry at not being allowed to go.

“You stay here, and I’ll tell you a story,” promised Lucy, who had grown to be a strong, healthy girl since the surgical operation. “I’ll tell you about Jack the Giant Killer.”

“Will you truly?” cried Jimmy. “Then I don’t care about the old fire.”

He climbed up into his sister’s lap, and soon was deeply interested in the story. Larry got on his hat and coat, and started out on the run. He found a big crowd in the street, hurrying toward the fire.

“They say it’s a gas tank,” said someone.

“I heard it was an armory,” remarked another.

“It’s neither; it’s a big hotel, and about a hundred people are burned to death,” put in a third.

“Whatever it is, it’s surely a big fire,” was a fourth man’s response as he started to run.

Larry wanted to get to the fire in a hurry, so he asked the first policeman he met where the blaze was. Learning that it was well up town, though the glare in the sky made it seem nearer, Larry decided to get on an elevated train to save a long walk.

As he neared the scene he could see the sky growing brighter, and the cloud of smoke increasing in volume. The trail of sparks across the heavens became larger. Down in the street an ever-increasing throng was hastening toward the conflagration.

Larry dashed from the train as it slacked up at the station nearest the fire. He ran down the stairs, and through the streets. As he came into view of the blaze he saw it was a big drygoods store, which was a mass of fire. It evidently had secured a good start, as every window was belching tongues of yellow flame.

Larry found a crowd of policemen lined up some distance away from the conflagration, keeping people back of the fire lines. Fortunately Larry had a newspaper badge with him, and the sight of this, with a statement that he was from the Leader, soon gained him admittance within the cordon.

He could not but think of the first time he had been at a fire in New York, how he had helped Mr. Newton, and, incidentally, got his place on the paper.

But there was no time for idle speculation. The fire was making rapid headway, and, in response to a third and fourth alarm that the chief had sent in, several more engines were thundering up, and taking their places near water hydrants, their whistles screeching shrilly, and the horses prancing and dancing on the stones from which their iron-shod hoofs struck sparks in profusion.

Larry made a quick circle of the building, which occupied an entire block, but failed to see any reporters from the Leader. He knew it was only chance that would bring them to the place, since most of them had assignments in different parts of the city.

“I guess I’ll have to cover this all alone,” thought Larry. “And it’s going to be a big job.”

In fact, it was one of the worst and largest fires New York ever had. It was no small task for several reporters to cover it, and for a young and inexperienced one to undertake it was almost out of the question. But Larry decided that he would do his best.

He went at it in a business-like way, noting the size and general shape of the building, and how the fire was spreading. Then he found how many engines were on hand, and from a group of policemen, who had nothing in particular to do except keep the throng back, Larry learned that the fire had been discovered in the basement about half an hour before. One of the bluecoats told how two janitors in the place had been obliged to slide down a rope, as they were caught by the flames on a side of the building where there were no fire escapes.

Larry got the names of the men from a policeman whose beat took in the store, and who knew them. Then he heard of several other interesting details, which he jotted down. All the while he was hoping some other Leader men would happen along to aid him, and relieve him of some responsibility. But none came.

The store was now a raging furnace. The whole scene was one of magnificent if terrible splendor. High in the air shot a shower of sparks, and every now and then a wall would fall in with a crash that sounded loud above the puffing of the engines, the shrill tootings of the whistles, and the hoarse cries of the firemen.

With a rattle louder than any of the apparatus that had preceded it, the water tower dashed up. It had been sent for when the chief saw that with the ordinary machines he would be unable to cope with the raging flames.

Under the power of compressed air the tower rose high, a long, thin tube of steel. Hose lines from several steamers were quickly attached, and the engines began pumping.

Out of the end of the tube shot a powerful stream of water that fairly tore out part of a side wall it was directed against, and spurted in on the forked tongues that were leaping up from the seething caldron of fire. A cheer went up from the big crowd that gathered as they saw the water tower come into play.

“That’ll soon settle the fire!” cried one man, on the sidewalk, near where the young reporter was standing.

“It will take more than one tower to put out this blaze,” rejoined a companion. “I believe it’s spreading.”

Others seemed to think so, too, for there were a number of quick orders from the chief, and his assistants ran to execute them. Two more water towers were soon on the scene, and then the fire seemed to be in a fair way of being put under control.

Larry was busy going from one side to the other of the big block which the burning department store occupied. He saw several incidents that he made notes of, knowing they would add interest to the story he hoped to write.

On the north side of the structure there loomed a big blank wall, that as yet had not succumbed to the flames. A number of firemen were standing near the base of it, endeavoring to break a hole through so they might get a stream of water on the flames from that side, since to get a ladder to the top of the wall was impossible, as the flames were raging at the upper edge.

Larry paused to watch them. Fierce blows were struck at the masonry with sledges and axes. Pieces of bricks and mortar flew all about. The men had made a small hole, which they were rapidly enlarging when a hoarse voice cried:

“Back! back, men! For your lives! The wall is coming down!”

The fire-fighters needed no second warning. They dropped their implements, and sprang back. Then with a crash that sounded like an explosion, the entire wall toppled over into the street.

Several of the firemen were caught under the débris, and pinned down. Their cries for help brought scores of their comrades up on the run, and Larry pressed forward to see all there was, in order to put it into the story.

“Look out!” called a policeman guarding the fire lines. “More danger overhead!”

Almost as he spoke, a big piece of masonry toppled down, and landed in the street not two feet from where Larry was standing, peering forward to see how the firemen fared. If it had struck him he would have been killed.

“Easy there, men!” called an assistant chief. “Go slow!”

“We don’t care for the danger! We’re going to get the boys out!” cried several of the unfortunate men’s comrades.

“All right, go ahead, I guess most of the wall’s down now,” spoke the assistant chief. “Here, you, young man!” he called to Larry. “What you doing here? Don’t you know you nearly got killed then?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Larry, trying to speak calmly. “But I’m a reporter, and I have to stay here.”

“Oh, you’re a reporter, eh?” asked the fireman, as he started in to help his men. “Well, I suppose you think you’re like a cat, and have nine lives, but you’d better be careful! Now get back a bit, while we see if any of these poor fellows are alive.”

Larry got some distance away, though not so far but that he could see what was going on. The crowd on this side had increased in size as the word went around that several firemen were buried in the ruins.

The rescuers worked madly, tearing at the hot bricks with picks and shovels. With crowbars they pried apart big masses of masonry. The lurid flames lighted up the scene with dancing tongues of fire, and the cries of the wounded mingled with the crackle of the blaze, the toots of the engines, and the hoarse yells of the men.

With loudly clanging bells several ambulances now drew up opposite where the imprisoned men were. They had been telephoned for as soon as it was known that an accident had occurred. After several minutes’ work one of the firemen was taken out. The white-suited doctor hurried to his side, and bent over the man. He listened to his heart.

“It’s too late,” said the physician. “He’s dead.”

Something like a groan went up from the unfortunate fellow’s comrades. It was quickly succeeded by a cheer, however, as another man was brought out. This one was very much alive.

“Be jabbers, b’ys!” he exclaimed, in jolly Irish accents, “it was a hot place ye took me from, more power t’ ye!” and, wiggling out of the hold of his rescuers, the fireman began dancing a jig in the light of the flames.

In quick succession half a dozen more were taken out. There were no more dead bodies, but several of the men were badly hurt, and were hurried off to the hospitals. Larry got their names from other firemen, and jotted them down.

CHAPTER VII
LARRY HAS AN OFFER

The young reporter had almost forgotten about his narrow escape, so anxious was he to get a good account of the fire, when he was surprised to hear a voice at his side saying:

“Are you trying to get all the good stories that happen?”

Larry looked up, and saw Mr. Newton.

“Golly, but I’m glad to see you!” said Larry.

“What’s this I hear about you nearly getting caught under a wall?” asked Mr. Newton. “A policeman told me.”

“It wasn’t anything,” replied Larry. “I was trying to get close to where the accident happened.”

“There’s such a thing as getting too close,” remarked Mr. Newton, grimly. “Get the news, and don’t be afraid, but don’t go poking your head into the lion’s mouth. You can take it easier now. I’m going to help you.”

“Did you know I was here?” asked Larry.

“No. Mr. Emberg heard of the fire, and telephoned me I had better cover it.”

“It’s ’most over now,” observed Larry.

“So I see,” remarked Mr. Newton, as he noted that the flames were dying out under the dampening influence of tons of water poured on them. “You’ve seen the best part of it. I suppose it will make a good story?”

“Fine,” replied Larry. “I only hope I can write it up in good shape.”

“I guess you can, all right,” responded Mr. Newton. “I’ll help you. Perhaps you had better go home now, as your mother might be worried about you.”

Larry agreed that this was a good plan, and made his way through the crowd to a car, which he boarded for his home, arriving somewhat after midnight.

His mother was sitting up waiting for him, and was somewhat alarmed at his absence, as rumors of the big fire had spread downtown, and it was said that a number had been killed.

“I’m so glad you were not hurt, Larry,” said she. “I hope you were in no danger.”

“Not very much,” replied Larry, for he did not think it well to tell his mother how nearly he had been hurt.

When Mr. Emberg learned the next day that Larry had, without being particularly assigned to it, covered the big fire, the city editor was much pleased. He praised the lad highly, and said he appreciated what Larry had done.

The young reporter had his hands full that day writing an account of the fire. Mr. Newton gave him some help, but the story, in the main, was Larry’s, with some corrections the copy readers made.

“It’s a story to be proud of,” said Mr. Emberg, when the last edition had gone to press. “You are doing well, Larry.”

One afternoon, several days later, when Larry had been sent to the City Hall to get some information about a report the municipal treasurer was about to submit, the boy was standing in the corridor, having telephoned the story in. He saw a short, dark-complexioned man, with a heavy black mustache walking up and down the marble-paved hall. Several times the stranger stopped, and peered at Larry.

“I hope he will recognize me when he sees me again,” thought the lad.

“Hello, Larry,” called a reporter on another paper, as he came from the tax office, where he had been in search of a possible story. “Anything good?”

“No,” replied Larry. “I was down on that yarn about the treasurer’s report. You got that, I guess.”

“Oh, yes, we got that. Nothing else, eh?”

“Not that I know of. I’m just holding down the job until Mr. Newton gets back. He went out to get a bite to eat, and they didn’t like to leave the Hall uncovered.”

“Well, I guess you can hold it down all right,” replied the other. “That was a good story of the fire that you wrote.”

“Thanks,” answered Larry, as his friend went away.

All this time the dark-complexioned stranger was walking up and down the corridor. Finally he came up to Larry, and asked:

“Is your name Larry Dexter?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the reporter.

“You’re on the Leader, aren’t you?”

“That’s the paper. Why, have you got a story?”

“No,” answered the man, with a short laugh. “I don’t deal in stories, but I see you’re wide awake, always on the lookout for ’em, eh?”

“Have to be.”

“How would you like to get into some other line of business?” asked the man, coming closer, and dropping his voice to a whisper.

Larry thought the proceeding rather a strange one, but imagined the man might not intend anything more than a friendly interest.

“It depends on what sort of business,” replied the youth.

“Do you like reporting very much?” the stranger went on.

“I do, so far.”

“Isn’t it rather hard work and poor pay?”

“Well, it’s hard work sometimes, and then again it isn’t. As for the pay, I guess I get all I’m worth.”

“I’m in a position to get you a better job,” the man continued. “I’m in a big real estate firm, the Universal we call it, and we need a bright boy. I have some friends in the City Hall here, some of the aldermen, and they said you would be a good lad for the place.”

“I don’t know how the aldermen ever heard of me,” remarked Larry.

“Well, I guess you’ve been around the Hall a good bit,” the man went on. “You were at the insurance hearing, weren’t you?”

“I carried copy for one of the reporters,” said Larry.

“Well, anyhow,” resumed the stranger, “do you think you’d like to work in a real estate office? There’s plenty of chances to make money, besides what we would pay you as a salary. We could give you twenty dollars a week to start. How would that strike you?”

Larry was puzzled how to answer. The pay was five dollars a week more than he was getting, and if the man told the truth about the chance to make extra money, it might mean a good deal to the lad and his mother.

“I’ll think about it,” said the young reporter. “I’ll have to talk with my mother about it.”

“I’ve seen your mother, and she says it’s all right,” the man said, quickly. “If you want to you can come with me now, and I’ll start you in at once. You’d better come. The offer is a good one, and I can’t hold it open long.”

Now Larry, though rather young, was inclined to be cautious. It seemed strange that a man, whom, as far as the reporter knew, he had never seen before, should take such a sudden interest in him, and should even go to see Mrs. Dexter to ask if Larry could take another position. Then, too, the stranger seemed altogether too eager to get Larry to leave his position on the Leader. The man saw Larry’s hesitancy.

“I’ll make it twenty-five dollars a week,” he said. “Better come.”

“I can’t decide right away,” the boy returned. “I must see my mother.”

“Do you doubt my word?” asked the stranger somewhat angrily.

“No,” said Larry. “But even if my mother gave her permission I could not leave the Leader without giving some notice to Mr. Emberg. It would not be right.”

“Don’t worry about that,” sneered the man. “They would never bother about giving you notice if they wanted you to leave. They’d fire you in a second, if it suited them. Why should you give any notice?”

The man appeared so eager, and seemed to place so much importance on Larry’s taking the offer, that the boy became more suspicious than ever, that all was not as it should be.

“I will think it over,” said he. “If you will leave me your card I’ll write to you.”

“If you don’t take the offer at once I can’t hold it open,” said the man, in rather unpleasant tones. “However, here’s my card. If you come to your senses, and decide to work for my company, why, I’ll see what I can do for you. Though I can’t promise anything after to-day. You’ll have to take your chance with others.”

“I’ll be willing to do that if I decide to come.”

“Hello, Larry!” exclaimed a voice, and Mr. Newton came around the corner of the corridor. “You here yet?”

“I was waiting for you to come back,” replied Larry. “Mr. Emberg told me to stay, and see that nothing broke loose while you were at lunch.”

“Anything doing?”

“Not a thing.” Larry turned to see if the stranger was at his side, but, to his surprise, the man had vanished.

“What did he want?” asked Mr. Newton, with a nod of his head toward where the man had been standing.

“Why, he wanted me to leave the Leader, and take a position with some real estate firm,” answered Larry.

“Don’t you have anything to do with Sam Perkins,” said Mr. Newton.

“Is that his name?” inquired Larry. Then he looked at the card the man had given him, and read on it: “Samuel Perkins, representing the Universal Real Estate Co. Main Office, 1144 Broadway, New York. Loans and Commissions.”

“That’s who he is,” replied Mr. Newton. “What was his game this time?”

“That’s just what I was trying to puzzle out,” was Larry’s answer, as he related what the man had said.

Mr. Newton listened carefully. He nodded his head several times.

“That’s it, I’ll bet a cookie. When you go home ask your mother just what Perkins said, and let me know.”

“Why, do you think there is something wrong in his offer?”

“I can’t tell. I have my suspicions, but I’ll not speak of them until I know more. Tell me what your mother says. In the meanwhile, if Perkins comes to you again, which I don’t think he will, since he has seen me speaking to you, just put him off until you can communicate with me.”

“Do you know him?”

“Know him? I guess yes!” replied Mr. Newton. “He was mixed up in more than one boodle and land scandal with the aldermen, but we never could get enough evidence to convict him. Maybe we can this time, if he’s up to any of his tricks. Don’t forget to ask your mother all about his visit.”

“I’ll remember,” replied Larry. Then, as the City Hall was about to close for the day, they went back to the office.

CHAPTER VIII
THE AGENT’S PROPOSITION

That night Larry questioned his mother closely about the visit Mr. Perkins said he had paid her.

“I didn’t know his name,” said Mrs. Dexter, in telling her story. “He came to the door, and asked if you were my son. Then he said a reporter’s life was a hard one, and asked me if I didn’t think you had better get a position somewhere else. I thought he was a friend of yours, and when he said he could give you a good job in the real estate office I thought it would be a good thing, and said so.”

“Is that all, mother?”

“Well, pretty nearly. He did ask a few questions about your father.”

“What did he want to know?”

“Well, he wanted to know where we came from, where we used to live, and whether your father ever owned any land here in New York.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said I didn’t know much about it, but that I thought your father had some papers, a deed or something, to some property in the Bronx.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He didn’t say much, only he appeared to be interested. He wanted to see the deed, but I couldn’t find it. I remember we had it one night, and I told him I thought we burned it up. Didn’t we destroy it, Larry?”

“We were going to, but, don’t you remember, I said it might be a good thing to save?” said Larry. “I have it put away.”

“I wish I had known it,” went on Mrs. Dexter. “I would have shown it to the man. He seemed very much interested in you, Larry.”

“Altogether too much,” went on Larry. “Mother, don’t trust that man. Mr. Newton knows him, and says he is almost as bad a criminal as though he had been convicted.”

“Why, I’m sure he seemed real polite,” said Mrs. Dexter. “He was very nicely spoken.”

“Those are the worst kind,” said Larry. “Don’t ever show him any of father’s old papers, particularly the deed to the land in the Bronx.”

“Why not, Larry? Is there any chance of that land ever becoming valuable? I remember your poor father saying it would never be any good. He was always sure he would never get any money out of it, as it is in the middle of a swamp. Do you think it will make us rich, Larry?”

“Hardly that, mother. In fact, it may never amount to anything. I doubt if we have even a good claim to it, as I don’t believe the taxes have been paid for a number of years.”

“Then what good is it to keep the deed? Don’t land go to the city if you don’t pay taxes?”

“Sometimes. In fact, I guess it always does. But there is some mystery about this, mother. I don’t know what it is, but I am going to find out.”

“Oh, I hope there is nothing wrong about us having the deed, Larry. I’m sure if your poor father knew there was anything wrong about it, he would never have taken the land.”

“There is not likely to be anything wrong, as far as we are concerned,” said Larry. “But, from two or three things that have happened lately, I am sure there is a mystery connected with that land. In some way we are involved, because we hold the deed. I am going to tell Mr. Newton all about it, and perhaps he can help us straighten it out.”

“Wouldn’t it be fine if the land turned out to be a gold mine,” put in Jimmy, who was listening with wide-opened eyes to what his mother and brother were talking of, and only dimly comprehending it.

“An’ diamonds and ice cream mines,” put in Mary, who was staying up past her bedtime.

“It would be fine,” said Larry. “But I think it is more likely to be a sandbank. In fact, I think the sandman has been around here lately, and has been throwing some of his dust in someone’s eyes,” and he caught Mary up in his arms, and kissed her.

“There’s no sand in my eyes,” said Jimmy, rubbing them violently, to prove the contrary.

“My, it’s getting late; it’s after nine o’clock!” exclaimed Mrs. Dexter. “Time you children were in bed.”

“I’ll undress Mary,” said Lucy, laying aside her sewing.

“I’m going to undress myself,” put in Jimmy, who was growing to be quite a lad.

Soon the two children were in the land of nod, and Lucy returned to the sitting-room, where her mother and brother were still talking.

“Do you really think this man had some hidden motive?” asked Lucy of her brother.

“I’m sure of it; or else why should he be so persistent? He evidently wanted to get possession of the deed.”

“Why do you think he offered you such a good position?” went on Lucy.

“He probably wanted to get me into his office, and then have me give him the deed, under pretense of examining it. Once he had it I guess we would never see it again.”

“Well, it’s a strange affair,” said Mrs. Dexter, with a sigh. “I hope it will be explained soon.”

“It will, sooner or later,” spoke Larry, with a confidence he hardly felt.

When Larry met Mr. Newton the next day, and told the older reporter about the conversation Perkins had had with Mrs. Dexter, Mr. Newton said:

“Things are working out the way I expected. Now, Larry, my boy, we must say nothing, and saw wood, as they say in France. If this thing pans out it will be one of the biggest deals ever undertaken. There may be something in it for your family, and there certainly will be a big story in it for the Leader.

“But we must keep very quiet. If it leaks out that we suspect something, or that we are on the track of the men I believe to be behind the matter, we will lose everything. So, first of all, guard that deed carefully. Next, tell your mother to hold no conversation with men who may call at the house to inquire about your father’s affairs. Lastly, do no talking yourself on this subject. I will work hard to stop the game I suspect they are trying to play, but I feel I need your help.”

“Do you think it involves the land my father owns, or at least the land for which we have a deed?”

“I am almost certain of it. If it is what I believe, there is much money in it.”

“For whom?” asked the lad. “I hope some of it will come my way.”

“Well, part of it may,” rejoined Mr. Newton. “But the men back of it intend the main share for themselves and the boodle aldermen and land sharps associated with them. So be on your guard, Larry. We can’t have you kidnapped again,” and Mr. Newton smiled at the recollection of the fate that once befell Larry in the early stages of his work for the Leader, in connection with the cab strike.

“I’ll watch out,” replied the young reporter.

Larry had plenty to do that day, and, having an afternoon assignment to cover—a meeting of one of the city boards—he did not reach home until rather later than usual. As he entered the apartment he heard his mother conversing with someone in the parlor, and the voice of the visitor was a strange one.

“My dear madam,” the man was saying, “I assure you everything is open and above board. We are making you an exceptionally good offer for very poor land. In fact, if I had my way, the purchase would not be made.”

“Then why talk of it?” asked Mrs. Dexter. “I am not anxious to sell. In fact, I know very little about the land.”

“A client of mine has taken a fancy to the place,” went on the man, while Larry listened, wondering who it could be. “He has authorized me to offer you two thousand dollars for the Bronx property. That is four times what it is worth, but I want to please my friend. Will you accept my offer?”

“No, she will not!” exclaimed Larry, entering the room at that moment. “Who are you, to come here making offers for land?”

“I don’t know that it concerns you,” replied the stranger, in no gentle tones. “What right have you to interfere when I am talking to this lady?” He evidently took Larry for a stranger.

“This is my son,” said Mrs. Dexter, for she did not like the man’s manner.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” said the stranger, who seemed at a loss what to say. “I did not know him. You are Larry, are you?”

“That’s my name. What is your business with my mother?”

The man appeared ill at ease. He twisted about on the chair, and said:

“Did you decide to take that offer a friend of mine in the real estate business made? I called to see if you had, and I was talking to your mother about it. Incidentally I mentioned that I could sell some property I hear she owns up in the Bronx. It is a small matter, hardly worth my while to bother with.”

“Then I’d advise you not to bother with it,” spoke Larry, shortly. “We can look after our own affairs, I guess.”

The man’s face flushed, and he seemed very angry. Then Larry remembered Mr. Newton’s advice to be careful of what he did or said in connection with the land.

“Of course it’s very good of you to think of my mother and myself,” said Larry, a little more politely. “But we have not decided what to do about that land, and I have made up my mind to stay on the Leader, so you may tell your friend I cannot accept his offer.”

“You had better think twice before you refuse my offer for the land,” the man went on. “As I said, it is of no value, particularly, but a friend of mine wants it. I might even offer you twenty-five hundred dollars for it, but that is as high as I can go. Will you take it?”

“I think not,” replied Larry, motioning to his mother to make no answer.

The reply seemed to make the man more angry than ever, and Larry could see him clench his fist, and grit his teeth.

“Would you mind letting me see the deed?” the stranger asked. “It is possible I have made a mistake, and that the land I am after is not that which you own. A glance at the deed will set me right.”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t let you see the deed,” spoke Larry. “I have been told to take good care of it, and not to let strangers have it.”

“But I only want to glance at it,” said the man.

“I can’t let you see it,” said the lad.

“You’ll be sorry for this,” the man exclaimed. “In less than a month you’ll be glad to take five dollars for the place, that is, provided you own it, which I very much doubt. You’ll lose the land, and then you’ll wish you had taken my offer.”

“I can’t help that,” said Larry, firmly. “We will not show you the deed, nor sell you the land at present.”

“Then you can take the consequences,” snapped the man, as he went out.

CHAPTER IX
THE BIG SAFE-ROBBERY

“Oh, Larry,” said Mrs. Dexter, when the sound of the stranger’s footsteps had died out down the hallway, “maybe we should have taken his offer. Twenty-five hundred dollars is a lot of money, and we are quite poor.”

“I know it, mother,” spoke the lad. “But I think there is something back of all this, or why should those men be making so many efforts to get possession of this land?”

“Maybe they want it for a special purpose, Larry.”

“I suppose they do, but they are not offering what it is worth.”

“Why, you know your father used to say it was worth very little,” said Mrs. Dexter.

“I know he did, mother, but the land may have increased in value since he had it. It must have, or those men would not come to us and make an offer. If land is poor and of no worth you have to go all around hunting for a customer, but when it is of some value customers come to you. That’s what makes me think this land will prove valuable. The men would not want it if it was only ordinary swamp.”

“I hope you are right,” said Mrs. Dexter, with a sigh, for it was hard to think of losing a chance to get what, to her, was a large sum of money. “We may hold the property a good while, providing it is not sold for taxes, and not get anywhere near that price for it, after all.”

“Of course there is a certain risk,” admitted Larry, “but I think it is worth taking. Mr. Newton thinks so, and has advised me to hold on to the deed. We must put it away carefully.”

“It is in that tin box where I have all your father’s old papers,” said Mrs. Dexter.

“I think I’ll keep the box under my bed,” spoke Larry. “I don’t suppose a burglar would take it if he saw it, but there’s no use running any chances. So I’ll hide the box.”

When he went to bed that night he carried the box with him, first looking to be sure the deed was in it. Then he placed the receptacle under his bed, away back, and close to the wall.

“If anyone wants to get that they’ll have to climb under the bed,” said Larry. “And if they do, I’m pretty sure to wake up. Then—let’s see, I wonder what I would do then?”

He paused to look about him, in search of a weapon, half smiling as he did so, since he had not the faintest idea that a burglar would enter their humble apartments.

“That club will be just the thing,” thought Larry, as he saw a heavy stick standing in the corner. It had been used as a clothes prop, for the lines that were strung on the flat roof of the tenement, and Jimmy, playing Indian, had brought it into the house that day. “This is better than a revolver,” thought Larry, placing it at the head of his bed.

Then he fell asleep, to dream of nothing more exciting than going fishing in the creek in his old home at Campton. He dreamed he was pulling a big fellow out, and that his pole broke, tumbling him backward upon the grass. He gave a great jump, which awakened him, and he saw the sun shining brightly in through his window.

“My! I must be late!” he exclaimed, jumping up. “I’ll have to hustle.”

He made a hurried breakfast, and arrived at the office a few minutes after eight o’clock, to find the place somewhat excited. A number of reporters were standing about, with copies of morning papers, but they seemed to be more interested in something else than in the journals.

“What’s up?” asked Larry, of some of the younger reporters.

“Big safe-robbery in Brown’s jewelry store,” was the answer.

“Did they get anything?”

“We haven’t heard any particulars yet,” replied Mr. Newton. “I just got the tip from police headquarters. But they think a good many thousand dollars’ worth of gold and diamond jewelry is missing. The safe is a wreck.”

Just then Mr. Emberg came in, and Mr. Newton quickly told the city editor of the robbery.

“Jump out on it,” said Mr. Emberg. “Take—let’s see—take Jones with you, and Larry also. We want a good story. I’ll send a photographer down to take a picture of the safe.”

Larry was well pleased to be assigned to help two of the best reporters on the paper. Some of the other men seemed a little envious of Larry, but, as is usual in good newspaper offices, nothing was said, and the men went out on their assignments, as given by the city editor, without a murmur, though some details were disagreeable enough.

Larry, with the two other reporters, lost no time in boarding a car for the scene of the robbery. They found a big crowd outside the jewelry store, which was located in a part of the city where persons of society and wealth did much of their shopping. A number of policemen, as well as detectives in plain clothes, were on guard in front of the establishment.

“Come, now, you’ll have to move on,” one of the bluecoats cried. “Can’t block the sidewalk. Move on. There’s nothing to see.”

“Maybe we can find a stray diamond or two,” suggested someone in the crowd, whereat there was a laugh.

“If you find any diamonds,” rejoined the officer, “hand ’em over to me, and I’ll get the reward.”

The three reporters made their way through the crowd to the front door of the store.

“Ye can’t come in here at all, at all!” exclaimed a big Irish policeman, blockading their path.

“We’re reporters from the Leader,” said Mr. Newton.

“Can’t help it if ye are editors from the Tail-Ender!” the bluecoat went on, with a smile at his own wit. “Orders are I’m t’ let not a sowl in at all, at all!”

“That’s all right, Pat,” said a sergeant of police, coming up at that juncture, and seeing how matters were. “These are not ordinary persons, you know,” with a smile at Mr. Newton and the others. “They’re reporters.”

“Well, if ye says it’s all right, it’s all right,” the policeman said to his superior. “Ye kin go in,” he added grandly to the newspaper men, as he stepped aside.

It took but a glance to show what had happened. Burglars had blown the massive door of the safe open, by using some powerful explosive. Then with tools they had pried open the inner doors, and had taken whatever suited their fancy. Larry wondered that the explosion had not wrecked the store, in the center of which the safe stood. He spoke of this to Mr. Newton.

“Those fellows used just enough explosive to crack the door, but not enough to do any damage outside,” said the older reporter.

Mr. Newton, who was in general charge of getting the story, soon made his plans. A few questions he put to one of the members of the firm who was on hand, showed him how the affair had occurred. The burglars had entered by forcing a rear window. They had placed a screen up in front of the safe, so that when the policeman on the beat looked in through the front door, as he frequently did during his rounds, he could not see the thieves at work.

“Have you a night watchman?” asked Mr. Newton of the firm member, Robert Jamison.

“Yes, and that’s the queer part of it. He claims he was chloroformed by the thieves early in the evening, or at least by one of them. We sent him home, as he is quite ill from the effects of the drug.”

“That’s a good part of the story,” said Mr. Newton. “Jones, you go down to the watchman’s house, and get all the particulars you can. Larry will stay here, and help me.”

When Jones had gone Mr. Newton made a close survey of the premises. He made a rough sort of diagram of how the thieves must have entered, and how they probably escaped. Then he told Larry to get a list of the diamonds and jewelry that had been stolen. Mr. Newton in the meantime had several talks with the police officers about the matter.

By this time quite a number of reporters from other papers had arrived, and, with the bluecoats and detectives, the store was pretty well filled. Mr. Jamison, with the assistance of one of his partners, made up a list of the stolen things, and then had his typewriter make several copies, which were distributed among the reporters, Larry getting one.

Larry could not help but think this was a rather up-to-date method of reporting, where the man who was robbed went to so much trouble for the reporters.

“He’s glad to do it,” said Mr. Newton. “You see, the thieves will try to pawn their booty, and by publishing a list of it, pawnbrokers will be on the lookout. It’s as much to his interest as it is to ours.”

After getting all the facts possible, Mr. Newton and Larry waited until Jones came back from the watchman’s house.

“Did you see him?” asked Mr. Newton, when Jones returned.

“Yes, and I got a good story.”

“Well, keep quiet about it. Maybe none of the others will think of sending down, and we’ll beat ’em.”

It appeared from the story the watchman told Jones, that, early in the evening, a well-dressed man had approached the guardian, whose name was Henderson, and started a conversation with him.

They talked for some time, and finally the stranger gave Henderson a cigar. The watchman said he preferred a pipe, and asked the stranger to wait until it could be brought from a rear room where the watchman kept it.

“Henderson went back to get it,” said Jones, in telling the story, “and the stranger followed him. The watchman was about to object, saying no one was allowed in the place after dark. But the stranger was so pleasant that the watchman was not suspicious. He followed Henderson into a sort of office in the rear, and there, while Henderson was getting his pipe, the stranger suddenly attacked him.

“He held a cloth with chloroform on, to his nose, and, though the watchman struggled and tried to cry out an alarm, the robber was too much for him. Henderson was soon left unconscious, and he thinks he must have been drugged, for he did not recover his senses for several hours. That’s all he knows. When he came to, the safe was blown open, and it was nearly morning.”

“That slick stranger, after drugging Henderson, probably stayed in the store,” said Mr. Newton, “and when the time came he admitted his confederates. After that it was an easy job for the professionals.”

“Well, I guess we’ve got everything,” continued Mr. Newton, as he prepared to go. “It will make a good story.”

The three Leader reporters had been standing near the rear window whence the robbers gained an entrance after their companion had, from within, forced the bars outward.

“What’s this?” asked Larry, stooping over, and picking up a small piece of paper. It had some peculiar blue marks on it.

“Looks as though someone had stuck their fingers in a bottle of ink, and then placed them on this paper,” said Jones.

“Let me see it,” asked Mr. Newton.

Larry handed it over. Mr. Newton took a long look. Then he smelled the paper.

“Whew!” he whistled softly. “This may give us an important clew to the burglars!”

CHAPTER X
WORKING UP THE CLEW

Mr. Newton placed the paper in his pocket. Then, as there seemed to be no further news of the robbery to get at the jewelry store, the three reporters hurried back to the Leader office.

There, after Larry and Jones had written out their parts of the story, they turned them over to Mr. Newton, who was to arrange the whole article in proper shape. Larry, soon after this, was sent out on another assignment, and did not get a chance to see Mr. Newton until late that afternoon.

“What are you going to do to-night, Larry?” asked his friend, as they were about to leave for home.

“Nothing special, Mr. Newton. I don’t do any studying during the summer nights, though I guess I need it.”

“No, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,” responded Mr. Newton, with a smile. “Study is a good thing, but you need recreation also. Do you want to make a call with me?”

“I guess so. Where is it?”

“To a chemist’s.”

“What’s up?” asked Larry.

“Well, don’t say anything about it,” went on Mr. Newton, in a low tone, “but we may be able to work up a clew in that burglary story.”

“You mean that safe robbery we were up to this morning?”

“That’s the one. I think the paper you found may prove of value. But I want to be sure of my ground before I go any further. So if you will come to the chemist’s with me to-night we’ll see what may develop.”

Larry didn’t see how a scrap of paper with a few blue finger-marks on it was going to be much of a clew to discover safe-blowers by, but he said nothing.

It was arranged that he was to call at Mr. Newton’s house after supper. He found the older reporter waiting for him, and they took a car.

“Of course, I needn’t tell you to keep quiet about this,” said Mr. Newton. “I haven’t said anything, even to Mr. Emberg, about it, for fear I might be mistaken, and get laughed at for my pains.”

“I’ll not say anything,” promised Larry.

In a short while they found themselves at the office of the chemist. The place was shut up, but Mr. Newton seemed to know where the scientist lived, for he rang a bell a few houses off, and, when a girl answered the door, asked:

“Is Mr. Hosfer in?”

“He is, but he’s very busy.”

“Just tell him Mr. Newton wants to see him,” said Larry, and the girl, with an air as much as to say that her errand would be fruitless, hurried off, leaving the two reporters standing on the steps.

“Not very polite,” said Mr. Newton, as they waited.

The girl was soon back.

“Mr. Hosfer will see you,” she said, with a very different air. “You must excuse me, but you see there are so many thieves about.”

“I assure you we’re not thieves,” said Mr. Newton. “The umbrellas and hats in the hall were perfectly safe.”

The girl laughed, and Mr. Newton joined in. In the midst of the merriment Mr. Hosfer, who was an old gentleman wearing iron-bowed spectacles that seemed lost under his shaggy eyebrows, shuffled into the room.

“Ah, it is my old friend of the newspaper,” he exclaimed. “What terrible scandal have you been writing up now? What horrible murder, what soul-racking suicide, what terrible mystery, what awful, terrible, horrible, monstrous, impossible tale have you been concocting, my dear friend?” And he laughed as though it was the most delightful thing in the world to have sensations of the most pronounced kind served up for breakfast, dinner, and supper.

“Nothing at all, Mr. Hosfer,” replied Mr. Newton. “We have nothing only the most ordinary news to-day.”

“Tut! tut! Nonsense! I know better,” was the reply. “I know you would not be satisfied with that. You will take a story of a little child getting lost, and make a fearful, blood-curdling mystery of it.”

For it was Mr. Hosfer’s opinion that all reporters were of the sensational class, who loved to dress simple facts up in word-garments of red and green ink. He could not seem to get over the notion, and perhaps it was because he seldom read a paper, being too busy with his many experiments.

“Well, what can I do for you?” asked the chemist, rubbing his hands. “Have you a sample of blood for me to analyze, or a dead body you want me to boil up in a test-tube? Trot it out,” and he smiled.

“I don’t know whether you will be able to help us or not,” said Mr. Newton, who had known the chemist for a long time, and who had frequently come to him for information concerning stories where chemistry played a part.

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t guarantee to solve impossibilities. I can’t tell what you had for breakfast by looking at your hat, as some reporters think a detective can. Besides, I’m not a detective.”

“This is strictly in your line,” said Mr. Newton, pulling the piece of paper with blue marks on it from his pocket, and holding it out to the chemist. “What is that?”

The chemist looked at it without touching it. He bent over closer, and applied his nose to it.

“It will not bite you,” said Mr. Newton.

“I know it will not,” was the answer. “But I want to get every impression I can from it before I take it into my hands. After I have handled it I cannot detect the odor as plainly, providing there is an odor, as there happens to be in this case. Now, what do you want me to do?” and he took the blue-marked paper from Mr. Newton’s fingers.

“What made those marks?” asked the reporter.

“There you go!” exclaimed Mr. Hosfer. “You think I’m a regular Sherlock Holmes. I can’t tell what made ’em at a moment’s glance. I doubt if even Sherlock Holmes could. I might make a guess, and hit it, or I might not. Probably not. I could say they were ink, or from a typewriter ribbon, or from bluing that was used at the weekly wash, or from water colors, or from oil colors, or—or some chemical. I’m inclined to think they’re some chemical, but, of course, it’s only a guess. You see, I only have one chance among a good many certainties of guessing. I must make an analysis.”

“That’s exactly what we want you to do,” said Mr. Newton. “Can you do it now?”

“Oh, I s’pose I can,” was the answer. “I can neglect all my other work to do something that will turn out to be a terrible murder, a mysterious shooting, a horrible suicide, a forgery, a child-stealing, an attempt at arson, or something worse. I can do it, I s’pose, to please you, but——”

“You will do it,” said Mr. Newton, with a laugh. “I know you’re as anxious to know what made those blue spots as I am. You’re going to find out, too.”

“Yes, I am,” said Mr. Hosfer, suddenly. “I wouldn’t do it for anyone else, but you’ve done me a number of favors, Mr. Newton, and I’d like to oblige you. Come into the laboratory.”

Followed by Larry, Mr. Newton accompanied Mr. Hosfer. The laboratory was in the rear of the house. It was a place well filled with all sorts of queer apparatus. There were rows of bottles containing oddly-colored liquids and solids, big flasks, small furnaces, pipes, odd machines, scales, an electrical apparatus, test tubes, alembics, retorts, crucibles, and all that goes to make up a chemist’s workshop.

“Now after I start to work,” said Mr. Hosfer, “I don’t want either of you to ask me a question. It bothers me, and I can’t think. When I get through you may talk all you please.”

Without more ado he started in. He tore off a small piece of the paper, and put it to soak in a tube which contained some liquid. Another piece he placed in another tube. One piece he burned, and saved the ashes from it on a tiny dish. Still another piece he covered with some white substance. All the while he kept muttering to himself, like some old philosopher in search of the secret of transmuting base metals into gold.

After a little while he took up the tube in which he had placed the piece of blue paper. He poured into it a few drops of some liquid, and the stuff in the tube changed color.

“Ah, I thought so,” muttered Mr. Hosfer.

He rapidly made a number of other experiments, going through similar performances. He tested the ashes of the paper he had burned, and even applied a small portion of them to his tongue, making a wry face as he did so.

“We are coming on,” he murmured, nodding his head at Mr. Newton and Larry. “We shall be there presently.”

Mindful of the injunction neither of the reporters spoke. They watched Mr. Hosfer with interest.

Finally the experiments were over. The chemist holding a test tube, in which was some violet-colored liquid, came toward them.

“Are you ready to hear what I have to say?”

“Say on,” spoke Mr. Newton, in half tragic tones.

“Whatever else that paper may have had on it, and I have not gone far enough to say all the things that were on it, that paper contained nitric acid in some form.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Mr. Newton.

“Positively,” replied Mr. Hosfer.

Larry felt greatly disappointed. He had expected something that would point a clew to the burglars, and to learn that the paper had only been marked by an acid, was somewhat of a shock.

“Could nitric acid, such as is used in the explosive nitro-glycerine, produce that color?” was Mr. Newton’s next question.

“Of course it could,” said Mr. Hosfer. “I knew you were coming to some terrible explosion, some awful blowing up of innocent persons, some catastrophe, some horrible cataclysm, some terrific disturbance of the laws of nature!”

“Not quite as bad as that,” said Mr. Newton. “But tell me this: If nitric acid made those marks, and nitro-glycerine could do it, would a person handling the explosive be likely to mark a paper in that fashion?”

“Most decidedly so,” said Mr. Hosfer. “I can refer you to——”

“Never mind!” interrupted Mr. Newton. “That is all I want to know.”

“What are you going to do now?” asked the chemist.

“I am going to look for the man who made those marks on the paper,” replied the reporter.

“How can you find him?” asked Larry, in surprise.

“By looking for a man with a blue hand,” was Mr. Newton’s answer.

CHAPTER XI
A SEARCH FOR THE BLUE HAND

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Hosfer, as he watched Mr. Newton place what was left of the blue paper in his pocket.

“I mean that I have a clew to the persons who blew open the safe,” said Mr. Newton. “As soon as I saw that paper which Larry found, with the blue marks on it, I thought it might have been used by the burglars. I was at a loss to know what could have caused the marks, but you, Mr. Hosfer, have solved that problem for me. I think I can manage the rest.”

“But can’t the blue marks wash off?” asked Larry. “What good is the clew then?”

“No! The blue marks will not come off!” exclaimed Mr. Newton. “Will they, Mr. Hosfer?”

“Not for some time,” replied the chemist. “I see now what Mr. Newton is driving at. He is going to solve a horrible, a dastardly, soul-curdling, bloody mystery. The blue marks will not come off. It is a peculiar feature of certain forms of nitric acid, and also of nitro-glycerine, which is made from the acid, that they will stain the skin a bluish color. This color will not come off until the skin wears off, and, as that takes some time, you may be sure that your blue-handed man will have to go around for a number of weeks with the marks on his fingers and thumb. I see what Mr. Newton is up to now. Oh, but you’re a sly dog!”

“It’s mostly a matter of luck,” replied the reporter. “You have been of great service to us, Mr. Hosfer.”

“To think I should be mixed up in a terrible, fearful, awful, shocking, sensational affair like this,” spoke the chemist, with a smile, as though it was the best fun in the world. “That comes of having a reporter for a friend.”

“Well,” said Mr. Newton, “you ought to be glad of a chance to aid the ends of justice by discovering the safe-robber.”

“All I ask is to be let alone with my experiments,” said Mr. Hosfer. “At the same time, if Justice thinks I’m entitled to anything, I might say I have my living to earn, and it’s none too easy a task.”

“I’ll speak to Justice about it,” said Mr. Newton, with a laugh.

Mr. Newton and Larry now took their leave. They had found out what they wanted to know, or at least Mr. Newton had, for Larry had no suspicion of the object of the visit to the chemist’s.

“What are you going to do next?” asked the lad of Mr. Newton.

“I’m going to begin a search for the blue-handed man,” was the answer. “I want you to help me. This will be aside from our regular work on the Leader, though if we are successful, it will mean that we’ll get a good story for the paper. We may have to work nights, and at other times when we’re not busy in the office or on assignments. Do you want to go in for it?”

“Of course I do,” replied Larry.

“There’s no reward offered, as far as I know,” went on Mr. Newton. “The firm is insured in a burglary concern, I understand, so they are not worrying about the loss. But it would be a fine thing if you and I could trace the thieves by reason of this piece of blue-marked paper.”

“It certainly would,” rejoined Larry. “I’ll do my best.”

The next day Mr. Newton had a talk with Mr. Emberg on the matter. He explained about the blue-marked paper, and told how Larry had found it, and how it might form a clew to the identity of the burglars.

Mr. Newton told how he and Larry had formed a plan of hunting for the blue-handed man, and secured permission to leave the office early afternoons, with Larry, on the trail of the safe-blowers.

For several days, however, there was so much to do around the office or out on assignments, that neither Larry nor Mr. Newton had a chance to work on their quest. They did not forget it, however. One afternoon Larry found a note on his desk asking him to call at Mr. Newton’s house that night, as the older reporter had to go out on a late story.

When Larry reached his friend’s house, he found that Mr. Newton had just come in.

“You almost beat me, Larry,” said Mr. Newton, pleasantly. “But I’ll be ready for you in a few minutes, as soon as I have a bite to eat. I’m rather hungry.”

“Is it about the blue-handed man?” asked Larry.

“That’s what it’s about,” was the reply. “That is, not exactly him, but we’re going to get on his trail, and, perhaps, we can land some of his confederates.”

A little later Mr. Newton explained his plan. It was that he and Larry would take every chance they had of going about in the slums of New York, for there it was that they might most naturally expect to find the man they sought.

“I don’t believe any of the gang of safe-blowers has left New York,” said Mr. Newton. “I have talked with the detectives about the matter, and they are sure that the criminals are hiding here. The trouble is, New York is such a big place it makes an excellent place to hide. The detectives have been over every clew, but they have succeeded very poorly so far. There’s not a trace of the men or the missing valuables.”

“Wouldn’t it be a joke if we got ’em!” said Larry.

“Almost too good a joke to be true,” was Mr. Newton’s reply.

The two reporters laid their plans, and put them into operation the next day. All the time they could spare from their office work they used in tramping about the worst parts of New York. Mr. Newton “knew the ropes” from having been on frequent assignments to localities where happenings grave and gay had occurred.

Together they went through the Bowery, into Chinatown, with its Joss houses, heavy with the smell of incense sticks, into Chinese dwellings where the reek of opium lingered, and into dives of all sorts.

All the while they sought but one man, a man who had blue hands, or blue marks on his fingers and thumbs. They were not interested in faces or clothes. All they looked at was hands.

For two weeks they kept up this tiresome work. They had any number of strange experiences. Once they came near to being caught in a raid the police made on a certain place, where, it was said, Chinese gambling was carried on. Again they were in places where fierce fights started, and where the first thing that happened was that the lights went out. But each time they came through all right.

All this while, however, their quest seemed to be fruitless. They could not find the man they sought. They made guarded inquiries, for they did not want it known what their object was, in frequenting the slums. But they did not meet with any success.

Once, indeed, they thought they were on the right track. A woman, of whom they inquired if she had ever seen a man with blue marks on his hands, replied:

“Yes, sure. He lif by me!”

“He lives with you!” exclaimed Larry, thinking, perhaps, he had stumbled upon the wife of the man they sought.

“I means in de same houses,” explained the woman, who was German. “His hands is as blue like de skies. He iss de man vat you vant. His hands is blue as vat nefer vas. He vorks in a place where dey makes bluing for clothes. Ah! sure his hands iss blue, but he iss a goot man!”

“I’m afraid he’s not the man we are after,” said Mr. Newton. “The hands of the man we want are not blue all over, only part blue; a little blue.”

“Ah, den, I knows,” said the woman, with a smile.

“What do you mean?”

“It iss his liddles boy vat you vants. His hands is littler as his fader’s, and dey iss not blue all over; only part blue. Ah, yes, I knows!”

Thanking the woman for her information, which, however, was of no value, Mr. Newton and Larry gave up their quest in that direction.

“We’ll have to start on a fresh trail in the morning,” said Mr. Newton, when he and Larry were eating a modest lunch in a cheap restaurant about twelve o’clock that night.

“It doesn’t seem as if we were going to succeed,” spoke Larry. “We’ve been at it a good while, and haven’t accomplished anything.”

“Don’t give up so easily,” counseled Mr. Newton. “I’ve been on the trail of stories for several months before I landed ’em. This business isn’t done in a day.”

The restaurant was almost deserted. At a table in the rear three men sat eating. Larry and Mr. Newton had paid no attention to them. As the men got up to go out they went close by the table where the two reporters sat. As they went by one of them said:

“I suppose Noddy will be helping us again soon.”

To this one of the other men made this rather strange reply:

“Not until he can take his gloves off. You know, he’s all blue from that last affair!”

“Hush!” cautioned the third man, with a glance at the table where the two reporters were sitting, but who could not be seen very clearly, as their chairs were in a shadow.

“Did you hear what he said?” asked Larry, when the men had gone out.

“I did,” replied Mr. Newton, with some show of eagerness. “It may have referred to our man, and again, and more likely, it may not. I wonder who those men were?”

“I know who one was,” said Larry.

“Who?” exclaimed Mr. Newton.

“I don’t know his name,” spoke the lad, “but he’s the same man who called on my mother that second time to ask her to sell him the Bronx property.”

“Are you sure?” asked Mr. Newton, half rising from his seat.

“Very sure.”

“Then I think we are on the trail,” said Mr. Newton.

“Why?”

“Because that man is a sort of lawyer who stands in with criminals of all kinds. He defends them when it is necessary, and helps them out of trouble. Of course, it may be only a coincidence, but I’m almost certain now, that he knows something of the blue-handed man we are seeking. Now we begin to see a little ray of light. We have been working in the dark up to now. I know where to start.”

“Can we do any more to-night?” asked Larry.

“I think not. You’d better go home and go to bed. In the morning I’ll commence in another direction. I have a friend, a detective, who will help us.”

So Larry started home. He would have gone much faster than he did, had he known what strange news awaited him.

CHAPTER XII
LARRY MEETS HIS OLD ENEMY

When Larry was walking along a street that led to the thoroughfare on which he lived, he was suddenly brought to a halt in front of a brilliantly-lighted cigar store, by hearing someone exclaim:

“Well, if there isn’t my old friend, Larry Dexter! How are you, Larry? Still on the Leader?”

Larry turned, to behold Peter Manton, a former copy boy on the newspaper, a lad with whom Larry had had numerous fallings out, and once quite a fight. He had not seen Peter often since the memorable race to get first to the telegraph office with news of the big flood.

“How do you do?” asked Larry, not very cordially, for he felt that Peter was an enemy.

“I’m fine,” replied Peter. “What’s your hurry? Wait, and I’ll buy you a cigarette.”

“I don’t smoke cigarettes,” rejoined Larry, not caring to announce that, as yet, he did not smoke at all.

“Well, don’t get mad,” said Peter, good-naturedly. “I suppose you have a grudge against me?”

“Well,” replied Larry, frankly, “I think you acted pretty mean when you smashed my boat.”

“I guess I did,” admitted Peter. “But you must remember I was very anxious to get my copy on the wire first.”

“So was I,” added Larry, “and I beat you,” and he could not help smiling at the recollection.

“And you got me fired by it,” spoke Peter, with an injured air.

“How was that?” asked Larry, for though he had seen Peter since the episode, he had not had a chance to talk to him.

“When the people on the Scorcher found out I was responsible for your paper beating them they told me to look for another position. I didn’t have much trouble finding one, though.”

“Where are you now?” asked Larry, thinking it would be no more than common politeness to ask. He was anxious to get home, however, and not very much interested in Peter or his projects.

“Oh, I’m with the Universal Real Estate Company,” said Peter. “I have a swell job. Mr. Perkins is a great friend of mine.”

Larry started. He recollected that it was the same company and the same man who had approached him, and who had seemed so anxious about the deed to the Bronx property. He decided he would not be in such a hurry to go home, but would make further inquiries from Peter. It might lead to something, he thought.

“I wonder you don’t give up the newspaper business,” went on Peter. “It’s hard work and poor pay. Maybe I could get you into our firm,” and he spoke as though he was the senior partner.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Larry, as if he was thinking of the matter. “I have very little knowledge of real estate.”

“You don’t have to have,” spoke Peter. “You could get along all right. All you have to do is to go around and see people, get descriptions of property, and keep a few books. It’s heaps easier than chasing copy.”

“I’m not chasing copy any more,” replied Larry. “I’m a regular reporter.”

“That’s worse,” went on Peter. “You never know when you’re through working. Now I finish by three o’clock every day, and have the rest of the time to myself.”

“Does your firm do much business?” asked Larry.

“You bet. And say, it’s going to do more. If you came in with us now I could put you on to a good thing. There’s going to be a big raise in land values in a certain locality in a little while, and our firm’s going to make a lot of money.”

“Where is the land?” asked Larry, carelessly.

“Don’t you wish you knew?” sneered Peter. “I’m not telling everyone. But, if you like, I’ll speak to Mr. Perkins for you.”

“You might,” said Larry, thinking it would be no harm to get as much information as possible. “I’d like to make some money.”

During this time the two youths had been standing in front of the cigar store. Larry was thinking it was about time for him to move on, as he did not want to arouse Peter’s suspicions by too many questions, when a short, stout, and dark-complexioned man came hurrying around the corner.

“I was afraid you’d gone,” the man said to Peter.

“No, I was talking with a friend of mine,” replied the former copy boy on the Leader. “Are you through?”

“Yes,” replied the man. “But I had no success.”

Larry looked idly at the stranger. He noticed he wore gloves, and this, at first glance, struck him as peculiar, for the night was warm. Still this fact was not so surprising, and Larry’s mind was about to pass over the incident when his eye happened to catch a glimpse of something blue about the man’s hand.

At first he thought it was the edge of a blue cuff. He looked again, more closely, and was startled to see that part of the glove was turned back at the wrist, and that the flesh which showed was deep blue in color.

Larry was so startled by the sight, so alarmed at the unexpected appearance of the blue mark, bringing as it did to his mind a recollection of the safe robbery, that he was afraid the man might notice his surprise. But Peter’s acquaintance did not pay any attention to Larry. He seemed in a hurry, and anxious to be moving on.

Larry began to wish that there might be some excuse for remaining longer in the company of Peter and the man. Yet he was afraid that if he did so, the stranger might suspect something, and hurry away before Larry had a chance to communicate with Mr. Newton.

In order to be sure of the person when he saw him again Larry looked closely at him. He saw that he had piercing black eyes, a nervous manner, a small, black mustache which he pulled at from time to time, and there was a small scar under his left eye.

“I’ll know him if I ever see him again,” thought Larry.

The man seemed ill at ease. Suddenly he discovered that the edge of his glove was turned back. With a quick motion he buttoned the article up.

As he did so he glanced sharply at Larry, as if anxious to know whether the lad had noticed anything. Larry pretended that his shoelace needed tying, and stooped over to avoid meeting the fellow’s look. As Larry straightened up he heard the stranger call out:

“Come on, Peter. There’s our car,” and, before Larry could have stopped them, had he desired to, or thought it wise, they were running after it.

“Well, that’s finding a man and losing him in a hurry,” thought Larry. “I wonder what I’d better do?”

At first he thought of calling on Mr. Newton. But as the reporter lived quite a distance away Larry decided this would not be wise. Then he thought he would call his friend up on the telephone. But the idea of talking about the blue-handed man over the wire, where anyone might hear it, did not seem to be exactly right.

“I’ll wait until morning,” thought Larry. “We can’t do anything now. Besides we’re on the right trail. I know where to find Peter, and maybe I can get some information out of him.”

With this end in view Larry proceeded on his way home. It was getting close to midnight, and he was a little worried lest his mother be alarmed over his long absence. He found her waiting for him.

“Oh, Larry!” she exclaimed. “You have given me such a fright!”

“Why, mother, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, I thought perhaps those men had done you some harm.”

“What men?”

“Why, the ones who are trying to get the deed away from us.”

“Have they been bothering you again?”

“Yes. One was here a while ago.”

“Was it anyone that had been here before?” he asked.

“No, this was a different one. He came in about nine o’clock when the children were in bed, and Lucy and I sitting here. He seemed nice at first, and then he began to ask me about the deed. He said you had sent him.”

“Me, mother? I never sent anyone.”

“Well, that’s what he said. He wanted me to sign an agreement to sell the property.”

“I hope you didn’t sign, mother.”

“No, I didn’t, Larry, and when I refused the man was very angry. He tried to hide his feelings, but I could see he was mad. Then he wanted to look at the deed, but I remembered what you had said, and I would not show it to him. Pretty soon he went away, but I was very much frightened.”

“What sort of a looking man was he?”

“Rather short, and dark-complexioned. He had a little black mustache which he kept pulling at all the time, and there was a scar under his left eye.”

Larry started as he heard these details. He began to see who the man was.

“Did you notice anything else about him, mother?”

“Nothing special, except that he kept his gloves on all the while he was here.”

“Are you sure of that, mother?”

“Of course, Larry. I spoke of it to Lucy afterward. I even asked him to take them off, as it was rather warm.”

“What did he say?”

“He seemed quite excited, and buttoned up one that had come open.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

“No, I didn’t, but Lucy did. She spoke to me about it afterward. She said she caught a glimpse of the man’s wrist where the glove was turned back, and it seemed to be of a red color.”

“A red color!” exclaimed Larry.

“I mean blue,” went on Mrs. Dexter. “She said it looked as if the man worked in a bluing factory. Perhaps that is why he kept his gloves on. He did not want people to see his blue hands.”

“I guess that’s the reason,” said Larry, trying to speak calmly. But he was greatly excited. The plot, which seemed to involve him and his folks in the safe-robbing, seemed to be growing more tangled.

CHAPTER XIII
IN WHICH THE DEED IS MISSING

Larry decided it would be better not to tell his mother anything concerning the blue-handed man, or his connection with the safe-robbery. He felt it would only make her worry, and would be of no particular good.

“I’ll solve this thing myself,” thought the young reporter. “I guess Mr. Newton and I can do it.”

So, after a few more questions, and added injunctions to his mother never to let the deed go out of her possession, Larry went to bed.

His mother soon sought her room, and presently the household was quiet. It was now past midnight, and everyone in the tenement seemed to be asleep.

It was rather a quiet neighborhood, and persons living in it were not in the habit of staying up late. The policemen whose beats took in those streets seldom paid a visit to them, for they knew there would not, in all likelihood, be any disturbances.

It grew a little cooler as the night wore on, and people who had been kept awake by the previous hot spell were making up for their lost sleep.

If any persons in the tenement, or apartment, where Larry and his mother lived, had been awake about three o’clock that morning they might have wondered at the sight of two figures stealthily creeping up through the side alleyway that led to the rear cellar door, and the stairs leading to the back doors of the various rooms. Two dark figures there were, moving along, almost as silently as shadows.

Now and then they would stop and whisper together, but, so quiet were their voices and so silent their steps that not a person heard them.

The policeman on the beat came to the head of the street, and looked down it. He saw nothing. How could he see the two figures in the alley? The officer remarked:

“It’s all quiet there. What’s the use of walking down? I’ll just go over to the avenue, and have a chat with Hennessy, and smoke a cigar before the roundsman comes along.”

So the policeman passed away. Meanwhile the two dark figures crept on. In a little while they had reached the cellar door. Cautiously one of the men drew from his pocket a small instrument like a cold chisel or a screwdriver, except that it had no wooden handle. One edge was broad and sharp, like a wedge.

The man went close to the cellar door. He put the edge of the instrument between the door and the jamb, close to the lock. There was a little crackling sound, hardly enough to waken the lightest sleeper.

“Is it all right?” whispered the man who had remained on guard outside the cellar door.

“All right,” was the whisper in return.

“Then go ahead and start the blaze. Don’t make much of a one. Put it near the dumbwaiter shaft, so the smoke will go up quickly. Use wet paper. It makes more smoke.”

“Go ahead,” came back, in whispered accents. “I’ll do my part, if you do yours. Do you know where they keep the papers?”

“Sure. Under the bed,” was the answer. “The old lady gave it away when I was talking to her to-night, only she never knew it.”

Then, while one of the men made his way into the cellar, the other began creeping up the rear stairs of the apartment house. And, if one had looked closely at the man who was creeping upstairs, they would have seen that his hands were encased in gloves, though it was summer time and quite hot.

Up and up he went, step by step, trying each one, to be sure it did not creak, before he trusted his weight on it. Now and then he would stop, and peer on all sides of him. Then he would listen to catch the faintest sound. But there was no noise. Not even the step of the policeman on the beat disturbed him. From afar came the hum of the big city, the roar of cars and elevated trains, the throb of traffic in the metropolis that never goes to sleep, but in the neighborhood of the tenement house all was quietness.

All at once the man on the steps began to sniff the air, like an animal scenting danger from afar.

“He’s started the fire! I can smell the kerosene oil!” he said, softly. “Now for the final scene!”

Carefully he walked along until he came to the door that led into the kitchen of the Dexter apartments. From his pocket he drew forth a small instrument similar to that which the other man had used. He placed the sharp edge between the door and the jamb, close to the lock. He pried on it. There was a slight crack, and the door had been opened with a burglar’s jimmy.

An instant later there broke out on the night air that most dreaded of all alarms in the midst of the crowded population of New York’s poor:

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

That was the cry that smote on the ears of those who were suddenly awakened from their slumbers.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

How it echoed down into the yard! How it sounded into the sleeping rooms! How it penetrated down the street, and even farther to where the policeman was smoking a cigar before the roundsman came!

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

Up through the tenement poured a volume of thick smoke. Thick, stifling vapor that rolled up through the dumbwaiter shaft, that penetrated to the rooms, and set the frightened tenants to coughing.

What a scramble there was then! What a hurrying and scurrying to leap from bed, to grasp whatever garments came nearest to hand, to wrap them about one, and then, if there were children, to grab them up, and run for the hall!

What a scene of terror succeeded what, but a few minutes before, had been a peaceful one! Frightened yells and screams mingled with the alarm of fire shouted by a loud voice. Children began to cry. Women laughed hysterically, and men called to one another to know where the blaze was, for no flames could be seen. Only there was that black and stifling smoke.

The man who had so stealthily crept up the stairs suddenly leaped into the kitchen of the Dexter home.

“Fire! Fire!” he exclaimed. “Hurry up out! The house is on fire!”

Mrs. Dexter screamed. Mary and Jimmy began to cry. Lucy slipped on a robe, and ran into her mother’s room. Larry leaped from his bed, and, pausing only to pull on his trousers, ran to where the others had gathered in the hall.

“Are you all out?” shouted the man, in the darkness. “Come on. I’ll carry the little boy. You take the little girl, lad. The other girl can help the old lady!”

Then grabbing up Jimmy, the man, whose hands were encased in gloves, half led, half pushed the little group on before him. Larry, dazed from sleep, grabbed up Mary, and, seeing that Lucy was leading her mother safely down, followed; the man bringing up the rear with Jimmy, who was hardly awake.

“Is the house on fire?” asked Larry.

“Sure! Can’t you smell the smoke?” asked the man.

“I mean is it bad?” cried Larry. “Because if it isn’t I must go back for some of our clothes and things.”

“Don’t stop for that now,” the man exclaimed. “You’ll be all burned up! Save your lives first!”

In all the excitement of it Larry could not help wondering where he had heard that voice before. But there was little time to think of this.

Down the stairs they ran, being joined by other tenants from every floor, all of whom were fleeing in scant attire. The cries of “fire” were being called now by scores of voices.

In about a minute, though it seemed five times as long as that, Larry, his mother, and all the others had emerged on the street. They found themselves in the midst of a motley throng, but in the excitement no one seemed to mind the strangeness of the attire.

One man was carrying two pillows, while his wife had a bird cage. Another man was trying to put his trousers on for a coat, and a third was endeavoring to drag a brass bed down the stairs.

Then came a shrill tooting whistle followed by the gallop of horses.

“The engines are coming!” cried Larry. “Get back out of the way, mother. Here, Jimmy, you and Mary stay close to me. We’ll go into one of these other houses. The fire doesn’t seem to be bad. Then I must go back after that box of papers.”

The man with the gloves, who had roused the Dexter family, had placed Jimmy down on the sidewalk.

“I’m going back to rescue some more!” he cried, as he sped up the smoke-filled hallway. He seemed anxious to save human lives even at the risk of his own.

By this time half a score of engines and trucks had drawn up in front of the tenement, summoned by the alarm the policeman had turned in.

The various apparatus had not come to a halt before dozens of firemen had leaped to the ground, and run into the house. They wasted no time. While some sprang up the stairs to rescue any persons who had been left behind, others sought the source of the blaze. They soon discovered it to be in the cellar.

Lighting the way with lanterns they carried they dashed down, not minding the choking smoke.

“Run in a chemical line!” shouted a battalion chief through a small megaphone he carried. “It’s only a pile of rubbish on fire. We don’t need any water.”

Quickly a small hose from the chemical engine was unreeled. The engineer turned a crank at one end of a big cylinder, and a bottle inside which contained vitriol was smashed, allowing the contents to mingle with a strong solution of soda water. This created carbonic-acid gas, and forced the mingled liquids out through the hose at high pressure.

On to the blazing pile of rubbish the chemicals were turned, and the little blaze, which was more of smoke than of fire, was soon out.

“It’s all over!” cried the battalion chief, five minutes later. “You can go back to bed!”

The people began to laugh hysterically, so sudden was the relief from anxiety. Several could not believe but what the house was doomed. The firemen, however, assured them there was no danger. Through the open windows the smoke was soon blown away. The engines started back to quarters.

“Come on, mother,” said Larry. “I guess we can go back now.”

“Golly! Wasn’t that just like a circus!” exclaimed Jimmy.

Up the stairs the Dexters went. On the way they were joined by scores of other tenants, all talking at once.

“I wonder if my papers and that deed are safe,” thought Larry.

As soon as he got back to his bedroom he looked for the box. He crawled under the bed, and felt about.

“That’s queer,” he mused. “I’m sure it was here!”

He made a hurried search of the room. The box had disappeared.

“We’ve been robbed during the fire!” exclaimed Larry.

CHAPTER XIV
A STRANGE OFFER

“Robbed!” cried Mrs. Dexter. “I hope no one has taken my gold breastpin and my ring!”

“I hope they didn’t take my book of fairy stories!” came from Jimmy.

“Do you mean thieves have been in here during the fire?” asked Lucy, as she sat down on a chair in the kitchen.

“That’s what I mean,” replied Larry. “The box of papers, in which the deed to the Bronx land was kept, is gone.”

“Perhaps you took it out with you, in your excitement,” suggested Mrs. Dexter.

“No,” replied Larry. “I know we have been robbed. The more I think of it the more I believe the fire was only a make-believe one, started to scare us so we would get out and give the thief a chance to work.”

Mrs. Dexter could hardly credit this, but Larry insisted he was right. The firemen went through the building to make sure there were no lurking sparks, and some of them said the blaze had amounted to nothing more than a small bit of rubbish on fire in the cellar, which confirmed Larry’s belief.

He said nothing more to his mother, however, as she was much excited over the fire. Soon they returned to bed, though Mary and Jimmy were the only ones who slept much afterward, as the others were too nervous.

Larry was much puzzled. That bold and daring men were plotting against the welfare of himself and his relatives he had little doubt. He was convinced that the blaze was only started for the purpose of giving someone an opportunity of getting possession of the deed.

“If they go to such lengths to get it, there must be something very valuable about it,” thought Larry.

Long and earnestly he thought over the matter. He recalled the man who had rushed into their apartments to notify them of the fire, and his suspicions grew that he had heard his voice somewhere before.

“I wonder if he could be someone whom I have been to see to get a story for the paper,” thought Larry.

He reviewed as well as he could the men he had called on since he had been a reporter. None of them seemed to fit.

“I know!” the lad exclaimed to himself, as he tossed on his bed in the darkness; “he’s the man who came up while I was talking to Peter. He’s the man who kept his gloves on when he came to see mother. He’s the blue-handed man!”

Once he had established this fact to his satisfaction, Larry’s mind worked quickly. That there was some connection between the blue-handed man’s operations, the safe-robbery, and the theft of the deed, Larry had no doubt.

“Things are getting into a strange mix-up,” thought the young reporter. “As soon as I think I am on the track of one part of the mystery it gets all tangled up with another part. I would like to catch that blue-handed man. Then, I believe, I would have one of the safe-robbers, I might get the deed back, and learn what is behind this land matter. It might make us wealthy. I wish it would.”

Finally, after much thinking over of the problems without result, Larry dropped off into a doze. When he awoke it was broad daylight, and the only thing to remind him of the night’s excitement was a heavy odor of smoke in the rooms. The whole house smelled as though someone had been curing hams in it.

Larry made a hasty breakfast, for it was getting late. Before he started for the office he made a search of the rooms, hoping against hope that he might come across the box of papers. But it was nowhere to be seen. He crawled under the bed, and lighted a match.

There in the dust, close to the wall, was the mark where the box had stood. Close by was a small, dark object.

“I wonder what that is,” thought Larry.

He reached for it. It was soft. Wonderingly he carried it to the light and examined the article. It was a man’s glove.

“I don’t remember losing any of mine,” he thought.

He looked at the glove more closely. It was too large to have ever fitted his hand. He turned it inside out. To his surprise the lining was streaked with blue, and there was a peculiar odor.

“This was worn by the blue-handed man!” whispered Larry, excitedly. “He has been here! There is no doubt now but that he took the box! I will save this for evidence in case I ever catch him!”

Larry had a number of assignments that day, taking him to various parts of the city. He had to attend a brief session of a church society, then he had to get an obituary of a well-known business man, next he had to cover a session of a subcommittee of the Board of Aldermen, and finally he was sent to see a man who offered to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge backward, provided some other person would jump with him, for a wager.

So Larry was rather tired out when afternoon came, and the Leader had gone to press for the last edition. He wanted a chance to tell Mr. Newton what had happened, and ask his advice.

“Now what would you do?” asked Larry, when he had finally told the older reporter about the fire.

“I wouldn’t do anything,” replied Mr. Newton. “That is, right away. If you go to the police, which is the most natural thing to do, in case of a robbery, these men—for I am sure now that there is a gang of them—will know it very shortly. In some mysterious way the thieves learn what the police know almost as soon as the authorities find things out themselves.”

“What would you do then?” asked Larry.

“I’d just keep quiet,” was the answer. “The thief, or thieves, are waiting to see what you will do. If you can fool them, so much the better. They must be desperate, or they would not venture to take the deed. To make any use of it they must forge signatures, and that is a risky proceeding.

“I am beginning to see what they are up to. I heard a rumor the other day of a plan that will enormously increase real estate values up in the Bronx section. It may be that the gang is behind this. Now while they have an advantage over you in that they have the deed, there is a certain element of risk in it for them. Deeds are bad things to monkey with.”

“What do you think they’ll do?” asked Larry.

“Wait and see,” replied Mr. Newton. “I am in the dark, just as much as you are. We can only wait. It may be that they took the deed in order to gain some hold over you, to force you to do what they want, and sell them the property.”

“Do you think there is any connection between the man who was in to see my mother—the man who took the deed—and the man who was in the safe-blowing gang?” asked Larry, anxious to know how sound his own theories were.

“I think the same man is concerned in all three transactions. The thing to do now is to catch him. If we do we can have him arrested on suspicion of the safe-robbery, and then we can work up the land matter. But wait a few days before you do anything, and if anything new turns up, let me know.”

The next day Mr. Newton was sent out of town on an assignment. Larry, too, had his hands full, for several reporters were on vacations, and it meant doubling up all around. One afternoon, chancing to look over the “personal” advertisement column of the paper, he saw the following:

“BLUE.—If return of document is desired from the fire, L. had better insert personal, making arrangements to sell land. Otherwise will suffer. Address, Mr. Hand.”

“That’s rather odd,” thought Larry. “It almost seems as if it was meant for me, and as if it was put in by the blue-handed man.”

The more he looked at it the more certain he was that some one of the gang had become afraid to try and use the deed illegally, and had taken this means of frightening him and his mother into complying with the gang’s wishes.

“Those words ‘blue’ and ‘hand’ are certainly put in so that I will see them,” thought Larry. “They must know we are on their track, yet they are very daring to come out so openly about it. I wonder what I had better do?”

The next day he showed the advertisement to Mr. Newton. The latter was interested at once. He made inquiries at the business office of the paper to learn who had brought the personal in. There he met with a snag, for it had been sent in by mail, with stamps inclosed sufficient to pay for one insertion. This was frequently done with small advertisements.

Mr. Newton had the letter hunted up which accompanied the advertisement, but this gave no clews, as it was typewritten, as was the advertisement itself.

“They’re up to date, at any rate,” the older reporter said.

“What shall we do?” asked Larry, again.

“Put an answering personal in,” replied Mr. Newton. “Here, I’ll write it. We’ll see if we can’t beat them at their own game.”

He scribbled down a few words on a slip of paper, glanced over it, changed it slightly, and read:

“HAND.—L. will do as you wish. Say where and when matter can be closed and deed returned. BLUE.”

“That ought to fetch them,” said Mr. Newton. “Now we’ll put it in the paper, and wait for results.”

They did not have a long delay. The day following the insertion of the personal by Mr. Newton, Larry received a letter. It was typewritten, and came to his house. It was short, and directed him, if he wished to get the deed back, to sign a certain agreement which was inclosed in the missive, and leave the agreement in a cigar store, the address of which, Larry noted, was the same as the one in front of which he had met Peter Manton.

As for the agreement it was a short one, in which Larry promised, in consideration of receiving certain valuable property, to convey, by a warranty deed, to certain persons to be named hereafter, a tract of land in the Bronx.

“Put the agreement in an envelope, and send it back to them,” advised Mr. Newton, when he was told of the matter. “I think we can catch the scoundrels. Even if you filled out the paper I doubt if it would stand in law, but we will not take that chance. Just leave it blank, put it in an envelope, and leave it in the cigar store. Ask no questions, and leave the rest to me.”

CHAPTER XV
THE SIGN OF THE BLUE HAND

“When shall I do it?” asked Larry.

“Let me see,” mused Mr. Newton. “I’ll have to lay my plans carefully. I guess to-morrow night would be a good time. We’ll write another personal, and put it in the paper to-morrow, telling the gang the document will be in the cigar store.”

“Then when they come to get it we’ll have a policeman on hand, and arrest whoever comes for it,” said Larry. “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly.”

“I would think that was the thing to do.”

“You don’t know these chaps, Larry. If we arranged to have a detective on guard, ready to grab whoever claimed the paper, the gang would learn of it in some way, and they would never come near the place. We will have to be foxier than that. We’ll have to do the watching ourselves, or rather I will. I believe none of the gang knows me. I’ll arrange to be in the cigar store to-morrow night, and I’ll follow whoever calls for the paper.”

So it was arranged. The document, unsigned, was placed in the envelope which the men behind the land plot had sent to Larry. He took it to the cigar store. The proprietor of the place kept a sort of private post-office, and had a number of boxes in which he kept mail or other things for his customers who preferred doing business that way rather than through the government agency.

Larry handed the envelope to the man. The young reporter wanted to ask who Mr. Hand was, and where he lived, but he refrained, for he thought the cigar man would probably refuse to answer, or else say he did not know.

That evening Mr. Newton stopped in the store to get a cigar. He thought the proprietor eyed him rather sharply, but Mr. Newton was used to meeting all sorts of persons in his capacity as a reporter, and did not mind being stared at. He tried to engage the proprietor in conversation, but the cigar dealer was not in a very pleasant mood, and answered shortly.

“I promised a friend I would meet him here this evening,” said the reporter. “Have you any objections to me waiting in your store?”

“Well, I don’t like people hanging around,” was the rather ungracious answer. “This place is small, and I need all the room there is to do business.”

“My friend might want to buy a box of cigars,” said Mr. Newton.

“Oh, of course, if he’s coming here in the way of trade,” said the cigar man, “I’ve no objections to your waiting, but as a general thing I don’t like it.”

He tried to be polite, but it was hard work. He even got a chair for Mr. Newton to sit on, but all the time the cigar man seemed nervous and ill at ease. He kept watching the door, as though he expected someone to come in who would object to the reporter’s presence.

An hour passed, and there was no sign of the blue-handed man or any messenger from him. Several persons called, and got letters or packages from the boxes, but the document which Larry had placed in the envelope in accordance with the instructions contained in the personal, was not disturbed.

“I wonder if they are suspicious,” thought the reporter. “They may have someone on the watch, or the proprietor may have sent them word that a stranger is in the store, and advising them to be cautious. However, I’ll wait a while longer.”

Another hour passed, and it was getting on to eleven o’clock. Mr. Newton was about to give up his vigil as fruitless, when a youth entered, went quickly up to the box, and took out the envelope. Mr. Newton screened his face with a newspaper, but looked over the top of the sheet to see who the messenger of the mysterious gang was.

“Well, if it isn’t Peter Manton, who used to be a copy boy on the Leader!” thought Mr. Newton. “Well, of all things! To think of him being mixed up with that gang!”

He was so surprised that he forgot to keep the paper up in front of his face, and lowered the sheet. After getting the letter from the box, Peter glanced over in the corner where Mr. Newton sat. He recognized the reporter at once, and seemed much startled on beholding him.

Shoving the envelope containing the blank agreement into his pocket, Peter hurried out of the store.

“I must get after him!” thought Mr. Newton. He purchased a few cigars from the storekeeper to make some compensation for his long use of the chair, and, murmuring something about his friend probably having been detained, hurried from the place after Peter.

As soon as he got outside he looked up and down the street to see in what direction the former copy boy had gone. At first he could catch no glimpse of him. There were only a few persons on the thoroughfare, however, and soon Mr. Newton’s trained eyes picked out the youth hurrying along on the opposite side of the street.

“He’s trying to get away,” thought Mr. Newton, as he stepped out briskly. “But I’ll trail him.”

If Mr. Newton could have seen the figure of a short, stout man glide out from the shadow of the cigar store, as he himself left the place, and follow after him, he might not have felt so easy in his mind about his ability to catch Peter. The man, taking after Mr. Newton, moved rapidly along, taking care to keep well in the shadows. His hat was pulled down low over his face, and on his hands were a pair of new gloves.

“You’re trying a smart trick,” the man muttered, as he shadowed Mr. Newton, “but I guess we’re on to your game. It’s a good thing I sent the boy instead of going myself.”

Meanwhile the double chase continued. Peter hurried on, obeying the instructions he had received. He crossed several streets, and made his way to that part of New York known as Chinatown, in the neighborhood of Pell and Mott streets, the place of the slums and opium joints.

After him came Mr. Newton, who kept as close behind the lad as was possible without detection. After Mr. Newton came the man wearing a new pair of gloves.

“It’s a good thing Larry didn’t undertake this thing alone,” thought Mr. Newton. “The chase is leading into a dangerous part of town. But it’s just the place where I’d expect the gang to have its headquarters.”

“I hope he doesn’t give up until he gets where I want him to,” murmured the man with the gloves. “If he doesn’t we’ll show him a thing or two, and I guess he’ll not be so fond of monkeying with other people’s affairs after this,” and he smiled in a cruel sort of way that boded no good to Mr. Newton.

Peter was playing his part well. He must have known he was being followed, yet he gave no sign. If Mr. Newton had not been so intent on the chase, he might have noticed that the former copy boy was not going as fast as would have a messenger on a somewhat dangerous mission. Peter was only leading the reporter on.

The boy swung into the Bowery, which at this hour of midnight was ablaze with lights, and crowded with people. Mr. Newton had some trouble keeping the youth in sight, but by shortening the distance between himself and Peter, he managed to get glimpses of him now and again. Finally Peter turned into Pell Street. He walked on past several houses, and came to a halt in front of a Chinese store. In the windows were all sorts of queer things that the Celestials use for food.

There were vegetables like cucumbers, pickled watermelon rind, sweetened ginger root, Lichi nuts, sunflower seeds, pickled eggs, dried sharks’ fins, the pith of bamboo shoots, ready for eating, bottles of rice wine, odd-shaped dishes, and many chopsticks. It was a Chinese grocery.

At the left of the main entrance was a smaller one leading up a flight of stairs. In the hallway a lamp, shaded by red paper on which were some Chinese characters, gave a faint illumination.

With a careful look about him, as if to see whether he was followed, Peter entered the hallway, and began to mount the stairs. Mr. Newton hesitated. He might be running into a trap if he went in. Though he knew he was in New York, and that there were police officers close at hand, he realized that often many crimes were committed in Chinatown that never reached the police.

But he wanted very much to find out what sort of a gang was behind the mysterious operations that had involved the Dexter family, and which gang also seemed to be mixed up in the safe-robbery.

“I think I’ll chance it,” thought Mr. Newton.

He paused a few seconds, as if to look at the things in the grocery window. Instead of observing them, however, he was carefully looking around to see if there were any suspicious characters in the neighborhood.

He did not see the man with the gloves, for that individual, as soon as he had seen the reporter stop in front of the building Peter entered, had hidden himself in a nearby doorway.

“Here goes!” exclaimed Mr. Newton to himself, as he entered the hallway.

It was quite dark, in spite of the lamp. He went up the first flight, and found himself in a narrow hall, from which several doors opened.

“I wonder which room he went into,” thought the reporter. “I can’t knock at all of them and ask. Few of the Chinese understand English when you want ’em to.”

He decided to go to the top floor, and get an idea of the layout of the place, before making any inquiries. So he continued up the next flight of stairs. The floor above was like the second, except that the portal of one room was open. Going past it Mr. Newton peered inside. He saw two solemn-faced Chinese playing a card game, and smoking long-stemmed pipes.

“I guess he’s not in there,” thought Mr. Newton. “I’ll try the next floor.”

Up he went, listening now and then to see if he was being followed. He could hear no footsteps, and there was good reason for it, as the man with the gloves, who had glided into the hallway a few seconds after Mr. Newton had entered, had slipped over his heavy shoes a pair of large felt slippers that made no sound.

“He’s walking right into the trap!” said the man with the gloves. “We’ll have him now.”

Mr. Newton reached the top hall. He saw a number of doors. At the end of the corridor, in front of one portal, there burned a dim hanging-lamp.

“I’ll see what’s in there,” the reporter mused.

He reached the door. He was about to knock when he happened to glance up.

He was startled to see confronting him, painted on a panel of the door, a large blue hand.

CHAPTER XVI
A VAIN QUEST

“I guess this is the place,” thought the reporter. “It’s rather odd, though, that they dare adopt such a sign as that openly, when they must know we are on their track in connection with the safe-robbery. I wonder if I’d better go in.”

The question was answered for him, as, at that instant, the door opened. Mr. Newton saw before him a room brightly lighted. Around a table were seated four men. In front of them was the envelope which had been obtained by Peter at the cigar store. Peter was nowhere to be seen.

“Well?” inquired one of the men, a short, slim fellow.

“I was looking for a friend, a young man,” said Mr. Newton, rather taken by surprise.

“Yes, we know who it was. He brought this envelope. But it’s no good. You can’t fool us!” exclaimed a voice behind Mr. Newton, and the next instant the reporter was shoved into the room by the man with the gloves, who entered after him, and shut the door, which closed with a snap.

At first the reporter was startled with the suddenness of it all, and he was not a little alarmed. He knew he was alone, and in the power of the gang he had sought to run down. He was also in the worst part of the city, where cries for help might go unheeded, since there were hourly fightings among the inhabitants, to which cries the police, if they heard them, paid no attention.

Mr. Newton thought he had been a little hasty. However, he resolved to put the best face on it he could, and not to seem frightened.

“Well?” asked the short, slim man again. “Now you’ve seen your friend isn’t here, what can we do for you?”

“You might give me back the stolen deed, for one thing,” exclaimed Mr. Newton, boldly, “and your friend Noddy might explain something in connection with a certain safe-robbery, while as for Mr. Perkins, he might tell what his plans are in connection with that land grab!”

There was a sudden stir among the men, as Mr. Newton said this. Two of the men got up from their chairs, and started toward the reporter, but a gesture from the man with the gloves restrained him. The latter then said, slowly and deliberately:

“You think you know a heap about us, don’t you?”

“I know more than you think I do, Noddy,” said Mr. Newton, coolly.

“Well, you didn’t play this trick right,” sneered Noddy. “We haven’t opened that envelope, but we know it doesn’t contain the agreement we want and intend to have. To prove you that, I’ll tear it up without opening it.”

This he did, throwing the pieces into a coal box that stood in a far corner of the apartment.

“In the next place,” went on Noddy, “you’ve gone a little too far in following our messenger here. We expected you would do so, however, and made our plans accordingly. Now you’re here you may have to stay longer than you counted on.”

“I guess not,” remarked Mr. Newton, speaking as lightly as he could, though he confessed afterward he felt no little alarm. “Remember, we’re in New York.”

“No! We’re not in New York! We’re in Chinatown, and that makes all the difference in the world!” exclaimed Noddy. “Get the cords, Ned!”

The tallest of the four men rose, and went to a closet. He came back quickly with a long, thin, but very stout rope under his arm.

“Fasten him up now!” commanded Noddy.

“Not without a fight!” exclaimed Mr. Newton. He backed into a corner, and stood ready to defend himself. He caught sight of an iron poker near the coal-box, and grabbed it up.

“There’s going to be some broken heads if you touch me!” the reporter cried.

The four men, with Ned, holding the cords, in the lead, hung back.

“Don’t be afraid of him!” yelled Noddy. “You can get the better of him!”

Mr. Newton swung the poker menacingly.

“Try it yourself, if you’re so anxious to get a cracked cocoanut!” muttered one of the men to Noddy.

Noddy made a motion as if to grapple with the reporter. But Mr. Newton, with a sudden motion, advanced, and stood in front of his enemy. Noddy reached his hand back toward his pocket, as if to draw a weapon. With a quickness that could not be guarded against, Mr. Newton swung the poker around, and brought it down on Noddy’s arm, making the fellow howl with pain.

“You’ll pay for this!” the man yelled.

Mr. Newton took advantage of the confusion which his attack had caused. He sprang to the door, and, with three blows from his weapon had shattered the lock. He threw the portal open, and dashed out into the hall.

“Stop him!” yelled Noddy.

“You’re too late!” called back the reporter.

“You’ll be sorry for this!” Noddy’s voice sounded through the passageway, as Mr. Newton sped away. “We’ve only just begun our campaign against your friends. Our next move will not be so easy on you!”

The noise of the blows on the door had brought a score or more of frightened Chinese from their rooms in the building, and they crowded into the halls and on the stairs as the reporter hurried out. This gave Mr. Newton one advantage, for the opening of the doors made the passages light.

In their frightened, cackling voices the Chinese sounded not unlike a lot of scared hens and roosters. In their anxiety to see what was going on, and perhaps in a desire to escape from what they evidently considered a raid by the police, some of the Celestials got in Mr. Newton’s way. He pushed through the throng, knocking some of the Mongolians over, at which they yelled louder than before.

Out into Pell Street sped the reporter, expecting to be pursued by some of the gang. But when he had reached the middle of the thoroughfare, which, even at the midnight hour, was well filled with people, he saw that no one was after him.

His sudden exit from the house, and the noise he left behind him, seemed to attract no attention, as the people of that neighborhood were used to all sorts of queer affairs, and it was considered impolite, in Pell Street, to inquire too closely into your neighbor’s business.

“Well, that was a lucky and rather narrow escape,” mused Mr. Newton, as he made his way toward the Bowery. “I guess I made a mistake in going up against that gang alone. I’ll know better next time. I’ve failed on this occasion, and we are as far off as ever from getting the deed, but I have another plan.”

Thinking Larry might be anxious to know the result of his attempt, Mr. Newton went to his friend’s house. Beyond telling him he had failed, the older reporter did not acquaint Larry with the details of the attack and the escape.

“What do you suppose became of Peter?” asked Larry.

“Oh, I guess he was somewhere in the house,” replied Mr. Newton. “It was like the other houses in Chinatown, a regular rabbit warren, with half a dozen entrances. He could go in one way, and out another. But I’ll land ’em yet.”

“What do you plan to do next?”

“To tell you the truth, I haven’t made up my mind,” Mr. Newton replied. “I’m sort of up against a stone wall. I want to sleep over it. Then, perhaps, I shall hit on something.”

It was now nearly one o’clock in the morning. Larry and Mr. Newton had been standing out in front of the Dexter apartments, for Larry did not want his mother to know about the quest, fearing she would worry over it. So, when Mr. Newton called on him, the two had gone outside.

“We can’t do anything more now,” remarked Larry.

“No, and I guess I’ll go home, and go to bed,” said Mr. Newton. “I’m all tired out.”

Bidding Larry good-night, Mr. Newton started off down the street. The neighborhood was rather poorly lighted, the lamps being few and far between. Pondering over the strange mix-up he had become involved in, the reporter was proceeding along rather absent-mindedly.

Suddenly his attention was attracted by someone in the house opposite him opening a window, and shouting:

“Thieves! Murder! Fire! Police!”

“That sounds like trouble,” thought Mr. Newton. “I seem to be going to put in a full night of it.”

“Help! Help! Help!” the voice, which was that of a woman, continued to yell. “I’m being robbed!”

Mr. Newton placed his fingers to his lips, and blew a long, shrill whistle. He thought if there was a policeman in the neighborhood he would hear it, and hurry to the woman’s aid. Meanwhile Mr. Newton decided to do what he could singlehanded.

“What’s the trouble?” he inquired.

“It’s robbers!” the woman exclaimed. “They are trying to get into my room, and steal my diamonds!”

“Are they there now?”

“They’re in the house. I heard them run downstairs, and they’re hiding in the dining-room. Oh, please, dear, good, kind Mr. Man, won’t you save me!”

“I don’t believe any burglars will remain around long with that screaming going on,” thought Mr. Newton.

By this time windows all over the neighborhood were going up, heads were poked out, and half a score of voices asked what the trouble was. One excited man fired his revolver.

Several policemen came up on the run, and, seeing Mr. Newton, who was the only person in the street at that time, they all made a dash for him.

“We’ve caught you!” one of the bluecoats cried.

“So I see,” remarked Mr. Newton, calmly. “What are you going to do with me?”

“It’ll be state’s prison for yours,” the officer went on, taking a firmer grip of Mr. Newton’s arm.

“He isn’t the one at all!” exclaimed the woman who had given the first alarm. “He was going to capture the burglar for me!”