To this day I don’t know how the police got word of this, but before our job had been completed, two cops appeared out of nowhere and threatened to arrest all for “indecent exposure” and “unlawful trespassing.” We had a tough time explaining our mission and proving to the police that the girls were out to engage in an athletic feat, and that Dan and I were assigned to report the stunt. However, we finally managed to convince them, and a few minutes after five in the morning, the swim got underway. Although the attempt was unsuccessful, Miss Pitinoff came within a half mile of reaching her goal, a considerable improvement over her previous showings on the shorter Battery route. * * * * * In my young days as a reporter, I often walked home after hours from the New York _Press_ building on Spruce and Nassau Streets to Harlem, a distance of five miles. My pal, Daniel, always accompanied me on these jaunts, weather permitting. We’d meet almost nightly after the first edition went to press and walk from the _Press_ down to the Battery and then up Broadway to 110th Street. It was during these after-hours walks that we frequently encountered situations that made the front pages of our papers. Fires, burglaries, raids on gambling joints, and even murders, figured in our stories. I vividly recall several that almost cost my life. It was on one of those late evening excursions that we heard the shrill blasts of police whistles—not an unusual occurrence—as we reached Lenox Avenue and 114th Street. We had been walking for about two hours, and it was close to three of a warm August night in 1911. “Let’s go, Dan,” I shouted, scenting a good story, and down the street I ran towards the sound of action. A little more cautious than I, Dan hesitated while I entered a building into which the cops had raced. It was pitch dark except for a flashlight carried by Officer Jerry O’Connor, a friendly patrolman who covered the beat. He and Officer Egon Erickson, high jump champion of the Mott Haven Athletic Club, were chasing an armed hold-up thug. The police went after their man with drawn guns and with me at their heels. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. As I reached the upper story of the building, I heard the door of the roof slam, indicating that the police were trying to locate their man there. I was about to follow when I was nearly hurled over the balustrade by the thief himself, who had avoided the cops by hiding behind the door. “There he is,” I yelled, grasping the rail to regain my equilibrium as the gunman started down the stairs. Seconds later, I found myself in the grasp of Officer O’Connor, who had his gun pointed toward me. “Not me, O’Connor,” I shouted. “I’m Nat, the reporter. He’s running to the street,” I added, pointing downward. The officer flashed his light on me and down we went with Erickson following.