A FAMILY HEIRLOOM
Down to the ground the hapless burdens were carried. Doctors who had
been summoned bent hastily over the motionless forms. Coats and jackets,
dirty from the oil, were torn open, and skillful hands felt to see if
hearts still beat.
“This one’s alive! Hurry him to the hospital!” cried a physician. The
man was placed in an ambulance, which set off, the horse galloping
swiftly.
The other five were past human aid, having been either burned to death
in the sudden rush of flame, or suffocated as they fell back into the
holder.
“There were twelve men working in the tank!” cried the superintendent of
the works, hurrying up to the chief of the fire department. “We have
found only ten. Where are the other two?”
A hurried search was made for the missing men. Larry joined in, as did
Mr. Newton. There were several piles of lumber in the yard about the
tanks, and behind one of these the bodies of the two unfortunate men
were found. One was still breathing, and was hurried to the hospital.
The other had expired.
While these things had been going on Mr. Newton was not idle. As soon as
he got any facts he ran to a telephone, and sent them in to the office,
where Anderson was waiting for them. Larry, Smith, and Robinson aided in
collecting the facts, sometimes turning them over to Mr. Newton, or
telephoning them in themselves, if he was busy.
In this way the information of how the accident occurred was obtained,
and from officials in the office of the works the names of the men were
secured. Meanwhile there were busy times in the _Leader_ city room.
Waiting until he had a fairly good and connected account of the
accident, Anderson sat down to a typewriter, and began grinding out
copy. He was a fast operator, and the way his fingers flew over the keys
was a sight to behold. In short, crisp sentences, but in words that made
a thrilling story, he rattled out the account.
Near him stood Mr. Emberg. As fast as Anderson had a paragraph written
the city editor would pull out the paper, and clip off what was written.
Meantime Anderson, as soon as the paper ceased moving, went on writing.
Mr. Emberg quickly edited the copy, and gave it to one of the messenger
boys, who ran with it to the pneumatic tube that sent it to the
composing room. There men who operated the typesetting machines stood
ready to set up the story.
The reporter who had been detailed to call up the hospitals was soon in
communication with them. He learned of the condition of the men as soon
as the doctors had made an examination. One man died as he was being
carried in. These facts were rapidly told to Anderson, who wove them
into his story. When part of the account had been written, and sent to
the composing room Mr. Emberg began making a heading for the story.
It was to be a “horse head,” with plenty of black type, and covering a
good section of the page. When part of this was written it was sent
upstairs, and the editor continued to write out the remainder. Thus not
a second was lost.
In less than three-quarters of an hour from the time the explosion
happened, the _Leader_ was out on the street with a very good account of
the accident. In fact, before the firemen had come away, having brought
up from the tank the last body, newsboys were selling copies of the
paper containing the story of the terrible happening, about the scene.
It was good and quick work.
By this time the photographer sent to make a view of the wrecked tank
had returned to the office, having made several exposures. In the
darkroom the plates were developed. Prints were made. Then they were
re-photographed; the other plates were put through a process, and the
thin film that contains the image was removed from the glass, and put on
a zinc plate.
Acids were poured over this, and by the use of certain chemicals the
image on the film was transferred to the zinc plate. This was quickly
made ready, and mounted on a lead block.
It was now almost time for the last edition. The story of the accident
had been made much longer, for Larry, Mr. Newton, Smith, and Robinson
were sending in new details. They were quickly set up, and the type was
placed in the forms. The picture was also put into the place it was to
occupy on the front page.
Then the form was covered with wet _papier-maché_, which was pressed
into the type while soft, and baked on by means of steam, under a heavy
weight. When the “matrix,” as it is called, being a piece of cardboard
with an exact reproduction of every letter in the type, or every line in
the picture, was ready, it was rushed to the stereotyping department.
There a lead plate, curved in a half-circle, was made from it, and this
plate, with a dozen others, each one representing a page of the
_Leader_, was clamped onto the presses.
The machinery was adjusted, and the press started, the papers being
printed at the rate of many thousands an hour. Thus the last edition
came out, about two hours after the accident, with a picture of the
scene, and the exploded tank. It was up-to-date newspaper work.
“Well, I guess we’ve done about all we can to-day,” remarked Mr. Newton,
addressing his helpers. “We’ve covered everything I can think of. I
guess we beat some of the other papers. Haven’t seen any of them around
here yet.”
“It certainly was a bad accident,” remarked Larry, who had never before
seen such a terrible one.
“This isn’t so much,” spoke Smith. “You should have seen the one over on
the Jersey meadows, when nineteen were killed by the train in the fog.”
“That’s right,” replied Robinson. “That was something of an accident.”
“I don’t want to see any worse than this,” said Larry. “This will last
me for a while.”
“Shall we go back now?” asked Smith.
“I guess so,” responded Mr. Newton. “Tell you what you might do, Larry:
get an interview with the head of the gas company. We can work it in
to-morrow. Ask him how he accounts for the accident, have him explain
how the gas could leak into the tank, and how a spark could be struck.
It will be a good feature, if you can get him to talk.”
So, while the others went back to the _Leader_ office, Larry prepared to
get an interview with the president of the gas concern. He inquired of
the superintendent of the place, and found that the man he wanted to see
was a Mr. Reynolds. Learning where his office was located, Larry went
there.
When he told the messenger who was stationed in the president’s anteroom
that he was from the _Leader_, the messenger grinned, as much as to
remark that the president would not see reporters. But the lad came back
with the information that Larry would be given a short interview. He was
ushered into the president’s office.
As soon as he caught a glimpse of him Larry wondered where he had seen
Mr. Reynolds before. Then it came back to him. This was the gentleman
who had lost the valuable jewels which Larry had found hidden in the
vacant lot one night. Mr. Reynolds, who was a rich banker, as well as
head of the gas company, had paid Larry one thousand dollars reward for
recovering the gems.
“I ought to remember him,” thought Larry.
“Well, what can I do for you?” asked Mr. Reynolds, in gruff tones, quite
different, Larry thought, from the manner he had used in thanking him
for the recovery of the jewels.
The young reporter asked the questions Mr. Newton had suggested, and was
given answers that explained how the explosion occurred. Mr. Reynolds
claimed that it was no fault of the gas concern, and stated that the
families of the victims would be provided for.
“It was a terrible occurrence,” said Mr. Reynolds, “and we regret it as
much as anyone. We try to take every safeguard for our employees, but
accidents will happen, sometimes, in spite of all our care.”
Larry asked a few more questions, and was about to take his leave, when
Mr. Reynolds, who had been looking at him rather sharply, inquired:
“Where have I seen you before, young man?”
“I brought back your jewels,” replied Larry.
“Oh, yes, yes! So you did! I have been wondering where I saw you. Well,
you didn’t find any more of my diamonds, did you?”
“No,” replied Larry. “Didn’t you get them all back?”
“All of them,” repeated Mr. Reynolds. “I was only joking. Though, to be
exact, we did not get all of them back. The thieves kept a valuable
heirloom.”
“What was it?”
“It was a ring,” replied Mr. Reynolds, “in the shape of a snake, coiled
around three times. For eyes it had two rubies, and in the end of the
tail was a diamond. It was not very costly, but I valued it for its
associations. It had been in our family for over two hundred years, and
I would like very much to have kept it.”
“Then it wasn’t in the box that I dug up?” asked Larry.
“No trace of it, though it was taken with the other things the thieves
carried off. By the way, they never found those thieves, did they?”
“No,” replied Larry.
“I suppose one of them took a fancy to my ring, and wore it himself,
instead of hiding it with the rest of the booty,” mused Mr. Reynolds.
“Well, if you ever should happen to come across it, and you might, for
you’re a lucky lad, I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.”
“I’d be glad to find it for you without the reward,” Larry said. “But
I’m afraid there’s little hope.”
“Not much, I guess,” agreed Mr. Reynolds. “Now is there anything more
you’d like to know about this terrible explosion?”
“I guess I have everything I need,” answered the young reporter. “I’m
much obliged to you.”
“Not at all,” responded Mr. Reynolds. “I find it pays better to be
perfectly frank with the newspapers. They’ll find things out, anyhow,
and you might as well tell them first, and get it in right.”
Larry went back to the office, where he wrote up his interview with Mr.
Reynolds, in readiness for the next day’s paper. Then he went home.
“I wonder if Jimmy’s been kidnapped,” thought the boy, as he neared his
house. In the excitement over the explosion he had forgotten, for a
while, the threats the gang had made.