“Yes, sir!” exclaimed Bud Nelson, head copy boy on the New York _Daily Leader_, one of the largest afternoon papers of the metropolis, as he raced upstairs to where the clicking type-setting machines were in noisy operation. “You boys must be more lively,” went on Mr. Bruce Emberg, the city editor. “This is not a playroom nor a kindergarten. You must learn to jump up whenever you hear the assistant city editor or myself call ‘Copy.’ I make some allowances for you boys who have not been here long, but it must not occur again.” The two remaining lads went back to their bench looking a little startled, for, though Mr. Emberg was a kind man, he could be severe when there was occasion for it. “Did he give you a laying-out?” asked Bud, of his companions, when he returned. “I just guess yes,” replied Charles Anderson, the tallest of the copy boys. “You ought to have heard him!” “I was so busy telling you fellows about the party last night I didn’t hear him call,” said Bud. “We’ll have to be more careful, or we’ll lose our jobs.” “Copy!” called the editor again, and this time the three reached the desk almost at the same instant. “That’s the way to do it,” remarked Mr. Emberg. “That’s what I like to see.” For the next few minutes there was a busy scene in the city room of the _Leader_. Reporters were writing like mad on their typewriters, and rushing with the loose sheets of paper over to the desk of the city editor or his assistant. These, and two copy readers, rapidly scanned the stories, made whatever corrections were necessary, put headings, or “heads,” as they are called, on them, and gave them to the copy boys. The lads ran out to the pneumatic tube that shot the copy to the composing room, or, in case of an important story, took it upstairs themselves so that it would receive immediate attention from the foreman. The boys were running to and fro, as if in training for a race, typewriters were clicking as fast as though the operators were in a speed contest, the editors were slashing whole pages from stories to make them shorter, and the copy readers were doing likewise. “Hurry up that stuff, Jones!” exclaimed the editor to one reporter. “You’ve only got two minutes!” “Here it is!” cried Jones, yanking the last page from his typewriter. For two minutes there was a wilder scene of activity than ever. Then came a comparatively quiet spell. “That’s all we can make for the first,” remarked the editor, with something like a breath of relief. “We did pretty well.” The editor looked over a book that lay open in front of him on his desk. The cover was marked “Assignments,” and it was the volume in which memoranda of all the items that were to be gotten that day appeared. The editor glanced down the page. “Here, Larry!” he called to a tall, good-looking youth, who was seated at a small desk. “Get this obituary, will you? It’s about a man over on the West Side. He was ninety-eight years old, and belonged to a well-known New York family.”