Larry Dexter, Reporter/Chapter 4

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.