LARRY AND THE REPORTER
It was now noon, and Larry, who had a healthy boy’s appetite, began to
feel hungry. He had never eaten in one of the big city restaurants, and
he felt somewhat timid about going in. Besides, he had only a quarter,
and he thought that he could get very little for that. He also felt
that he had better save some of the money for car-fare, and so he made
up his mind that fifteen cents was all he could afford for dinner.
He walked down several streets before he saw a restaurant that seemed
quiet enough for him to venture in.
The place was kept by an old German, and while it was neat and clean
did not seem to be very prosperous, as Larry was the only customer at
that particular hour.
“Vat you want, boy?” asked the old man, as Larry entered. “I don’t
have noddings to gif away to beggars. I ain’t buying noddings. You had
better git out.”
“I’m not selling anything and I’m not a beggar,” said Larry sharply. “I
came in here to buy a meal,--er--that is a small one,” he added as he
thought of his limited finances.
“Ach! a meal, eh!” exclaimed the German, smiling instead of frowning.
“Dot’s different alretty yet! Sid down! I have fine meals!”
“I guess I only want something plain,” spoke Larry. “A cup of coffee
and some bread and butter.”
“We gif a plate of soup, a piece of meat, coffee und rolls yet by a
meal,” said the restaurant keeper, and Larry wondered how much such a
meal would cost. “It’s fifteen cents alretty,” the German went on, and
Larry breathed a sigh of relief, for he was very hungry.
He had gone, by chance, into one of the cheap though good restaurants
of New York, where a few cents buys plenty of food, though it is not
served with as much style as in more expensive places.
The restaurant keeper motioned Larry to sit down at one of the
oilcloth-covered tables, and then, having brought a glass of water,
hurried away. Soon his voice was heard giving orders, and in a little
while he came back, bringing a bowl of hot soup. Larry thought he had
never tasted anything so fine.
By this time several other persons had come into the place and the
German was kept busy filling orders. A young woman came out from the
rear of the shop to help him and she served Larry with the rest of his
meal. When he had finished he was given a red square of pasteboard,
with the figures “15” on it, and he guessed that this was his meal
check and that he was to pay at the desk, over which a fat woman
presided. It was near the door, and walking up to it Larry laid down
his quarter, getting his ten cents in change and going out.
He felt that he was getting on in the world, since he had eaten all by
himself in a public restaurant, and he was encouraged now to go on with
his search for work. A meal often puts a strong heart into a man, or
boy either, for that matter.
“Now for a job!” exclaimed Larry as he started off briskly.
He consulted the paper which he still had and went to several
places that had advertised. But that day must have brought forth an
astonishing crop of boys out of work, or else all places were quickly
filled, for at every establishment where Larry called he was told that
there was no need for his services.
Signs of “Boy Wanted” became “as scarce as hen’s teeth,” Larry said
afterward, which are very scarce indeed, as no one ever saw a hen with
teeth. About four o’clock in the afternoon he found himself at the
junction of Fifth Avenue and Broadway, where the big Flatiron Building,
as it is called, stands. Larry had walked several miles and he was
tired and discouraged.
The day, which had been pleasant when Larry started out, had become
cloudy, and a dark bank of clouds rolling up in the west indicated that
a thunderstorm was about to break. As Larry stood there, amid all the
bustle and excitement of the biggest city in the United States, he felt
so lonely and worried that he did not know what to do. He thought of
his mother and the children at home, and wondered whether he would ever
get work so that he could take care of them.
Suddenly, from out of the western sky, there came a dazzling flash of
lightning. It was followed by a crashing peal of thunder, and then
the storm, which had been gathering for some time, burst. There was a
deluge of rain, and people began running for shelter.
Larry looked about, and, seeing that many were making for the open
doorway of the Flatiron Building, on the Fifth Avenue side, ran in that
direction. He had hardly reached the friendly shelter when there came
a crash that sounded like the discharge of a thirteen-inch gun, and a
shock that seemed to make the very ground tremble.
At the same time Larry felt a queer tingling in the ends of his
fingers, and several persons near him jumped.
“That struck near here!” a man at his side exclaimed.
“Guess you’re right,” another man said. “Lucky we’re in out of the
wet.”
By this time the rain was coming down in torrents, and several more
persons crowded into the lobby of the big building. Larry stayed near
the door, for he liked to watch the storm and was not afraid.
Suddenly, down the street, there sounded a shrill whistle, mingled with
a rumbling and a clang of bells.
“It’s a fire!” cried several.
“Lightning struck!” exclaimed one or two.
“It was that last smash!” said the man Larry had noticed first. “I
thought it did some damage. Here come the engines!”
Up Fifth Avenue dashed the steamers, hose carts, and hook-and-ladder
wagons.
“There’s the fire! In that building across the street!” someone said.
Larry looked and saw, coming out of the top story of a big piano
warehouse on the opposite side of Fifth Avenue, a volume of black
smoke. A number of men, unmindful of the rain, ran out to see the
firemen work, and after a little hesitation Larry, who did not mind a
wetting, followed.
It was the first time he had ever seen a fire in a big city, and he
did not want to miss it. He worked his way through the crowds that
quickly gathered until he was almost in front. There he held his place,
not minding the rain, which was still falling hard, though not as
plentifully as at first.
He saw the firemen run out long lengths of hose, attach them to the
steamers, which had already started to pump, and watched the ladder men
run out the long runged affairs up which they swarmed to carry the hose
to the top stories, where the lightning had started the fire.
Then the water tower was brought into play. Under the power of
compressed air the long slender pole of latticed ironwork rose high,
carrying several lengths of hose with it. Then the nozzle was pointed
toward the top windows, and soon a powerful stream of water was being
sent in on the flames, that were making great headway among wood and
shavings in the piano place.
The street was filled with excited men who were running back and forth.
Many of them were persons who had come from near-by buildings to see
the fire. Some were from the burning building, trying to save their
possessions. The firemen themselves were the coolest of the lot, and
went about their tasks as if there was nothing unusual the matter. Soon
the police patrol dashed up and the blue-coats piled out and began to
establish fire lines. Larry, like many others, was forced to get back
from the middle of the street.
The boy, however, managed to keep his position in the front rank. He
watched with eager eyes the firemen at work, and never thought how wet
he was.
“It’s going to be a bad blaze,” remarked a man near Larry. “The fire
department’s going to have its hands full this time.”
It certainly seemed so, for flames were spouting from all the windows
on the top story and the one below it. More engines dashed up, and the
excitement, noise, and confusion grew.
In front of Larry a big policeman was standing, placed there by the
sergeant in charge of the reserves to maintain the fire lines. The
officer had his back toward the crowd, and enjoyed a good vantage
point from which to watch the flames. A young fellow, with his coat
collar and trousers turned up, and carrying an umbrella, worked his way
through the crowd until he was beside Larry.
“Let me pass, please,” he said, and then, slipping under the rope which
the police had stretched, he was about to pass the policeman and get
closer to the fire.
“Here, come back, you!” the officer exclaimed.
“It’s all right; I’m a reporter from the _Leader_,” said the young
fellow, and he turned, showing a big shining metal star on his coat.
“Go ahead,” spoke the policeman. “You’ll have a good story, I’m
thinking.”
“Anybody hurt?” asked the reporter, pausing to ask the first question
that a newspaper man puts when he gets to a fire.
“Wouldn’t wonder. Saw the Roosevelt Hospital ambulance taking a man
away when we came up. Jumped from the roof, I heard.”
“Gee! I’ll have to get busy! Say, it ain’t doin’ a thing but rain, is
it? I can’t take notes and hold my umbrella too, and I certainly hate
to get wet. I wish I had a kid to manage the thing for me.”
“I’ll hold the umbrella for you,” volunteered Larry, quick to take
advantage of the situation, and realizing that, by aiding the reporter,
who seemed to be a sort of favored person at fires, he might see more
of the blaze.
“All right, kid, come along,” spoke the newspaper man, and, at a nod
from the policeman to show it was all right, Larry slipped under the
rope and followed the reporter, who made off on a run toward the
burning building. Many men wished they were in Larry’s place.
“Come on, youngster. What’s your name?” asked the reporter of Larry.
The boy told him.
“Mine’s Harvey Newton,” volunteered the newspaper man. “We’ll have to
look lively. Here, you hold the umbrella over me, while I make a few
notes.”
Larry did so, screening the paper which the reporter drew from his
pocket as much as possible from the rain. Mr. Newton, who, as Larry
looked at him more closely, appeared much older than he had at first,
made what looked like the tracks of a hen, but which were in reality
a few notes setting down the number of the building, the height, the
size, the location of the fire. Then the reporter jotted down the
number of engines present, a few facts about the crowd, the way the
police were handling it, and something of how the firemen were fighting
the blaze.
“This is better than getting wet through,” Mr. Newton said, as he
returned his paper to his pocket and waited for new developments.
“Say, why don’t you bring the city editor out with you when you cover
fires?” asked another reporter, from a different paper, addressing Mr.
Newton, and noticing Larry’s occupation.
“I would if he’d come,” replied Mr. Newton. “Don’t you wish you had an
umbrella and a rain-shield bearer?”
“Don’t know but what I do,” rejoined the other, who was soaking wet.
“Say, this is a corker, ain’t it? Got much?”
“Not yet. Just arrived.”
Suddenly, with a report like that of a dynamite blast, the whole top
of the building seemed to rise in the air. An explosion of oils and
varnishes used on pianos had occurred. For an instant there was deep
silence succeeding the report. Then came cries of fear and pain,
mingled with the shouts of men in the fiercely burning structure.
“I’ll need help on this story!” exclaimed Mr. Newton. “I wonder----
Say, Larry,” he went on, turning to the boy, “can you use a telephone?”
“Yes,” replied Larry, who had used one several times at Campton.
“Then call up the _Leader_ office. The number’s seventeen hundred and
eighty-four. Ask for the city editor, and tell him Newton said to send
down a couple of men to help cover the fire. Run as if you were in a
race!”