“If I can only develop that ‘nose for news,’” Larry thought with a sigh. He imagined it was some magic gift that comes to only a favored few. And so, in the main, it does, but at heart every boy is a reporter, for if he doesn’t tell his chum or the family at home the different things he sees during the day he’s only half a boy. And telling the things one sees is, after all, the beginning of reporting, for that’s all a newspaper does, only on a larger scale. Like many another thing that one wants very much and which often comes unexpectedly, Larry’s chance came when he had no idea it was so close at hand. He had been on the _Leader_ a month now and was getting well acquainted not only with the editors and men on the staff, but the different ways of doing things, from the time a reporter brought a story in until it came out in the paper. One hot August morning as Larry was on his way to work, he saw quite a crowd at the entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge, caused by a breakdown on one of the cars. He paused for a few minutes, as he was a little ahead of time. As he did so he noticed, on the outer edge of the throng, a handsomely dressed woman. In her hand she carried a large silver purse, through the open meshes of which could be seen a green roll of bills. Suddenly a roughly dressed youth grabbed the purse, pulled it from the lady’s hand with a savage yank, and bolted down a side street. “Thief! Robber! He’s stolen my money!” the woman cried. Instantly the crowd forgot all about the breakdown on the bridge and raised a cry of: “Stop thief!” “There he goes!” “Catch him!” “Police!” “Which way did he go?” asked a policeman, coming up on the run. “Down there!” exclaimed Larry, pointing down a street that ran parallel with the bridge abutments. The fleeing youth was running at top speed, but he made one mistake. He looked behind to see if anyone was after him, and did not see an ash barrel that stood in his path. He stumbled over this and went down in a heap, covered with cinders. He got up, however, before the policeman was near enough to grab him and started off again. At that moment, however, from a side street there came a small cart, in charge of an Italian, and bearing a heap of peanuts and a roaster at full steam. Before the thief could check his flight he had crashed, full tilt, into the Italian’s cart. Right into the midst of the pile of peanuts he went, upsetting the vehicle and landing with it on top of him in the middle of the street. With a shrill cry the Italian threw himself upon the man he supposed had purposely brought his wares to grief, and thief and peanut vendor were in the midst of a fight when the policeman came rushing up, and grabbed his prisoner. The youth still held the purse, an odd-shaped affair, in his hand. Illustration: “I’VE GOT YOU! COME TO THE STATION HOUSE” _From Office Boy to Reporter_ Page 77 “I’ve got you!” exclaimed the officer. “Come to the station house.”