Larry Dexter, Reporter/Chapter 2

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 a night by the Leader, since the morning paper 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 that 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'out 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.