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. CHAPTER III ON TRACK OF A DEAL “What’s this?” asked the city editor. “That story of amateur night,” replied Larry. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten all about it. I’m glad you have the copy in early, as I want you to make a quick trip out of town.” “Any more floods?” asked Larry, thinking of the big one he had helped cover when he was a copy boy. “Not this time; this is only to take a run over to New Jersey, to a little town called Cranford.” “What’s the matter out there?” “I want you to see Professor Allen. He is to deliver a lecture at the dinner of the Engineers’ Club to-night, and he has promised a copy of his remarks in advance.” Larry was soon on his way, crossing the Hudson River on the ferry to the New Jersey side, where he took a train for Cranford. He found Professor Allen’s house without much trouble, and inquired for the gentleman. “I don’t believe you can see him,” replied the girl who answered the door. “Why not; isn’t he at home?” asked Larry.