“Well, Larry, I don’t want you to do anything you will worry over. If you think you had better play into the hands of the gang, in order to prevent the possibility of them kidnapping your brother, don’t let me stop you. All you have to do is to insert a notice to that effect in the papers. They are probably watching for it.” “Do you honestly think they’ll try to kidnap Jimmy?” asked Larry. “No, I don’t. It would be a pretty serious thing for them to do, mixed up as they are in other crimes. I don’t believe Jimmy is in any danger.” “Then I’ll not sign,” decided Larry. “I’ll show them I’m not afraid!” It was shortly after one o’clock, and the first edition had gone to press. There had not been much news, local or foreign, since morning, and the reporters and editors were taking it a little easy. It was a warm afternoon in early September, and the haze in the air indicated the approach of a storm. “It would be just like something to break loose now,” observed one of the reporters, who was lazily lounging on a table, puffing at a corncob pipe. “It was just like this one afternoon when that big railroad wreck occurred. We thought we were never going to get any news that day, when all at once we had more than we could handle. That’s always the way when——” “Boom!” A dull but powerful explosion sounded through the open windows, startling the reporters, and causing the one who was speaking to break off suddenly in his talk. “Something went up that time,” exclaimed Mr. Newton. “Are they blasting anywhere around here?” asked the city editor. “No,” several replied. “That’s an explosion of some sort. Can’t be down at one of the forts, as it sounded too near.” “Look out that window!” exclaimed Larry, pointing at one that opened on the north side of the office. “See the smoke!” A dark pall of vapor, like an immense cloud, overhung a portion of the city, seemingly about a mile away from the office. “It’s one of the gas tanks!” cried Mr. Newton. Just then the automatic fire alarm in the office, which was connected with the regular city system, began to tap the bell with quick, impatient strokes. There was dead silence in the room while all counted the number of the box. “It’s 313!” exclaimed a reporter. “That’s the gas works—private box!” “Newton, you and Larry with Smith and Robinson, jump out on that, quick!” exclaimed Mr. Emberg, grabbing for the telephone on his desk. “’Phone the story in!” he added. “We’ll get out an extra if we have to!” While he was giving these orders, which the four reporters, including Larry, obeyed at once, the city editor was getting into communication with the art department on the floor below. “Send a photographer up to the gas works!” he called. “Big explosion there. Try and get a picture for the last edition!” He hung up the receiver with a bang. “Anderson, you get ready to take the story over the telephone!” Mr. Emberg went on. “You’ll have to grind it out lively!”