His mother was sitting up waiting for him, and was somewhat alarmed at his absence, as rumors of the big fire had spread downtown, and it was said that a number had been killed. “I’m so glad you were not hurt, Larry,” said she. “I hope you were in no danger.” “Not very much,” replied Larry, for he did not think it well to tell his mother how nearly he had been hurt. When Mr. Emberg learned the next day that Larry had, without being particularly assigned to it, covered the big fire, the city editor was much pleased. He praised the lad highly, and said he appreciated what Larry had done. The young reporter had his hands full that day writing an account of the fire. Mr. Newton gave him some help, but the story, in the main, was Larry’s, with some corrections the copy readers made. “It’s a story to be proud of,” said Mr. Emberg, when the last edition had gone to press. “You are doing well, Larry.” One afternoon, several days later, when Larry had been sent to the City Hall to get some information about a report the municipal treasurer was about to submit, the boy was standing in the corridor, having telephoned the story in. He saw a short, dark-complexioned man, with a heavy black mustache walking up and down the marble-paved hall. Several times the stranger stopped, and peered at Larry. “I hope he will recognize me when he sees me again,” thought the lad. “Hello, Larry,” called a reporter on another paper, as he came from the tax office, where he had been in search of a possible story. “Anything good?” “No,” replied Larry. “I was down on that yarn about the treasurer’s report. You got that, I guess.” “Oh, yes, we got that. Nothing else, eh?” “Not that I know of. I’m just holding down the job until Mr. Newton gets back. He went out to get a bite to eat, and they didn’t like to leave the Hall uncovered.” “Well, I guess you can hold it down all right,” replied the other. “That was a good story of the fire that you wrote.” “Thanks,” answered Larry, as his friend went away. All this time the dark-complexioned stranger was walking up and down the corridor. Finally he came up to Larry, and asked: “Is your name Larry Dexter?” “Yes, sir,” replied the reporter. “You’re on the _Leader_, aren’t you?” “That’s the paper. Why, have you got a story?” “No,” answered the man, with a short laugh. “I don’t deal in stories, but I see you’re wide awake, always on the lookout for ’em, eh?” “Have to be.” “How would you like to get into some other line of business?” asked the man, coming closer, and dropping his voice to a whisper. Larry thought the proceeding rather a strange one, but imagined the man might not intend anything more than a friendly interest. “It depends on what sort of business,” replied the youth. “Do you like reporting very much?” the stranger went on. “I do, so far.” “Isn’t it rather hard work and poor pay?” “Well, it’s hard work sometimes, and then again it isn’t. As for the pay, I guess I get all I’m worth.”