Larry handed over the umbrella and darted toward the sidewalk. He wiggled his way through the crowd, and went back to the lobby of the Flatiron Building, where he had noticed a telephone booth. Dashing inside he took off the receiver, and gave central the number of the Leader office. Then the girl in the exchange, after making the connection, told him to drop ten cents in the slot, for the telephone was of the automatic kind. In a few seconds Larry, in a somewhat breathless voice, was talking with the city editor of one of New York’s biggest newspapers.  
“What’s that?” Larry heard the voice at the other end of the wire ask. “Newton told you to call me up? Who are you? Larry Dexter, eh? Well, what is it? Big fire, eh? Explosion? Fifth Avenue and Broadway? All right. I’ll attend to it.”
 
Then, before the city editor hung up the receiver of his instrument Larry heard him call in sharp tones:
 
“Smith, Robinson! Quick! Jump up to that37 fire and help Newton. Telephone the stuff in! We’ll get out an extra if it’s worth it!”
 
Then came a click that told that the connection was cut off, and Larry knew that help for his friend, the reporter, was on the way.
 
The boy hurried from the booth and ran again toward the crowd that was watching the fire. There were more people than ever now on the scene, but Larry managed to make his way through them to where the same policeman stood that had let himself and the reporter through the lines once before. Larry resolved to find his new friend. He slid close up to the officer.
 
“I’m helping Mr. Newton, the reporter for the Leader,” the boy said to the bluecoat.
 
The policeman looked down, recognized Larry, and said:
 
“All right, youngster, go ahead. Only get a fire badge next time or I’ll have to shut you out.”
 
But Larry was not worrying about the next time. He was rejoicing that he had gained admittance through the lines, and was close to the fire, which was now burning furiously.
 
More engines arrived with the sending in of the third alarm, and several ambulances were on the scene, as a number of men had been hurt in the explosion. Within the space made by the ropes there was plenty of room to move about, but there was much confusion. Larry spied Mr. Newton as close to the blaze as the reporter could get.38 Then he saw him dart over to an ambulance to which they had carried a wounded man.
 
Larry ran after his new friend, and found him getting the name of the injured piano worker, who was badly burned. The poor fellow was being swathed in cotton and oil by the ambulance surgeon, but the reporter did not seem to think of this. He asked the man for his name and address, got them, and jotted them down on his paper, which was now quite wet, since he had furled the umbrella.
 
“Back on the job, eh?” questioned Mr. Newton, stopping a moment in his rush to notice Larry. “Did Mr. Emberg say he’d send me some help?”
 
“Mr. Emberg?” asked Larry.
 
“Yes. The city editor you telephoned to?”
 
“Oh yes, I heard him tell someone to ‘jump out on the fire.’”
 
“Then they’ll come. Now, youngster, let’s see—what’s your name? Oh yes,—Larry. Well, I’m going to have my hands full now. Never mind about holding the umbrella. But drop in the Leader office and see me some day, say about five o’clock in the afternoon, after we go to press.”
 
“All right,” said Larry, dimly wondering how he was to get home, since he had spent his last ten cents for the telephone. But Mr. Newton was thoughtful to remember that item, and taking a quarter from his pocket he handed it to Larry.
 
39 “That’s for the message and your trouble,” he said.
 
Larry was glad enough to take it, though he would have been satisfied with ten cents.
 
“Don’t forget to call and see me!” said Mr. Newton.
 
The next instant there came loud cries of warning, and looking up Larry saw the whole upper front of the building toppling outward, and ready to fall over.
 
“Back! Back for your lives!” cried police and firemen in a shrill chorus.
 
Larry turned and ran, as did scores of others who were in the path of the crumbling masonry. A moment later the crash came. Then followed a rush of the frightened crowd, in which Larry was borne from his feet and carried along, until he found himself two blocks from the fire.
 
He turned to make his way back to within the fire lines, but found it too hard a task, as the crowd was now enormous. Then he decided to give it up as a bad job, and go home. Inquiry of a policeman showed him which car to take, and an hour later he was in the small apartment, where he was met by his mother and the children, who were much alarmed over his absence.
 
“No luck, mother,” Larry said, in answer to a look from Mrs. Dexter. “But I earned fifteen cents, anyhow, by helping at a fire.”
 
“Helping at a fire?”
 
40 Then Larry told his experience to the no small wonderment of them all.
 
“Maybe Mr. Newton will help me get a job,” he said hopefully.
 
“I wish he would,” said Mrs. Dexter. “I have some work to do, Larry,” she added.
 
“You, mother?”
 
“Yes, a lady on the floor above does sewing for a factory. It happened that one of the women who works in the place is sick, and our neighbor thought of me. I went to the shop, and I got something to do.”
 
“But I don’t like to have you work in a shop, mother,” objected Larry.
 
“I am to do the sewing at home,” went on Mrs. Dexter. “I cannot earn much, but it is better than nothing, and it may improve in time.”
 
“Maybe I can get a job diggin’ gold somewhere,” put in James. “If I do I’ll give you a million dollars, mommer.”
 
“I’m sure you will,” said his mother, giving him a hug.
 
“Maybe I could sew some,” spoke Lucy, from the chair where she was sitting, propped up in cushions.
 
“I’d like to see us let you!” exclaimed Larry. “You just wait, I’ll get a job somehow!”
 
But, though he spoke boldly, the boy was not so certain of his success. He was in a big city, where thousands are seeking work every hour,41 and where opportunities to labor do not go long unappropriated. But Larry was hopeful, and, though he worried somewhat over the prospect of the little family coming to grief in New York, he had not given up yet, by any means, for this was not his way.
 
Late that night Larry went out and bought a copy of the Leader. On the front page, set off by big headlines, was the story of the fire and explosion. The boy felt something of a part ownership in the account, and was proud to think he had helped, in some small measure, to provide such a thrilling tale.
 
For the fire proved a disastrous one, in which three men were killed and a number seriously hurt. The papers, for two days thereafter, had more stories about the blaze, and there was some talk of an investigation to see who was responsible for having so much oil and varnish stored in the place, which, it was decided by all, was the cause of the worst features of the accident.
 
During those two days Larry made a vain search for work. But there never seemed to be such a small number of positions and so many boys to fill them.
 
The third day, after a fruitless tramp about the city, Larry found himself down on Park Row, near the Post Office. He looked at one of the many tall buildings in that locality, and there staring42 him in the face, from the tenth story of one, were the words:
 
New York Leader.
 
“That’s my paper,” Larry thought with a sense of pride. Then the idea came to him to go up and see Mr. Newton, the reporter. It was nearly five o’clock, and this was the hour Mr. Newton had mentioned. Larry did not exactly know why he was going in to see the reporter. He had some dim notion of asking if there was not some work he might get to do.
 
At any rate, he reasoned, it would do no harm to try. Accordingly he entered the elevator, and asked the attendant on what floor the reporters of the Leader might be found.
 
“Twelfth,” was the reply, and then, before Larry could get his breath, he was shot upward, and the man called out:
 
“Twelfth floor. This express makes no stop until the twenty-first now.”
 
Larry managed to get out, somewhat dizzy by the rapid flight.
 
Before him the boy saw a door, marked in gilt letters:
 
City Room.
 
“I wonder where the country room is,” mused Larry. “I guess I’d feel more at home in a country room than I would in a city one.”
 
43 Then the door opened and several young men came out.
 
“Did you get any good stories to-day?” asked one.
 
“Pretty fair suicide,” was the answer. “How’d you make out?”
 
“Pretty decent murder, but they cleared it up too soon. No mystery in it.”
 
Rightly guessing that they were reporters, Larry approached them and asked for Mr. Newton. He was directed to walk into the city room, and there he saw his friend, with his feet perched upon a desk, smoking a pipe.
 
“Hello, youngster!” greeted Mr. Newton. “Been to any more fires?”
 
“No,” said Larry with a smile. “That one was enough.”
 
“I should say so. Well, you helped me considerable on that. We beat the other papers.”
 
“Beat them?” asked Larry.
 
“Yes, got out quicker, and had a heap better story, if I do say it myself. You helped some. Want to go down and see the presses run?”
 
“I came in to see if there was any chance of getting work,” answered Larry, determined to plunge at once into the matter that most interested him. “My mother and I and the rest of the family came to New York a few days ago, and I need work. Is there any chance at all of a job here?”
 
44 “Well, if that isn’t luck!” exclaimed Mr. Newton, without any apparent reference to Larry’s question. “Say,” he called to someone in the next room, “weren’t you asking me if I knew of someone who wanted to run copy, Mr. Emberg?” he asked.
 
“Yes,” replied the city editor, coming out into the reporter’s room. “Why?”
 
“Nothing, only here’s a friend of mine who wants the job, that’s all,” said Mr. Newton, as if such coincidences happened every day.
 
“Ever run copy?” asked the city editor, after a pause.
 
“I—I don’t know,” replied Larry, wondering what sort of work it was.
 
“It’s like being an office boy in any other establishment,” said Mr. Newton. “You carry the stuff from the reporters’ desks to the editors’ and copy readers’, and you carry it from them,—that is, what’s left of it—to the tube that shoots it to the composing room.”
 
“I guess I could do it, I’m pretty strong,” replied Larry, whereat the two men laughed, though Larry could not see why.
 
“You’ll do,” said the city editor pleasantly. “I’ll give you a trial, anyhow. When can you come in?”
 
“Right now!” exclaimed Larry, hardly believing the good news was true.
 
“To-morrow will do,” said the editor with a45 smile. “We’re all through for to-day. Come in at eight o’clock to-morrow morning.”
 
“I will!” almost gasped Larry, and then, as the two men nodded a kind good-night, he sped from the room.