“Then it’s no fake, if you saw Nero loose,” went on Mr. Newton. “He’s the worst lion in captivity. That ought to be a good story.” “Why in the world didn’t you telephone it in?” asked Mr. Emberg. “You might have been beaten by some of the early editions of the yellows. Hurry up, now, make that the feature of your story.” Somewhat chagrined over his failure to have appreciated the real news value of the lion incident, Larry began to turn out copy as fast as he could write. Mr. Emberg read it. “You’re doing all right!” he called to Larry. “It is as good a circus story as we’ve had in a long time. Keep it up.” Larry told of everything in connection with the escape of Nero, and then began to describe the different scenes, including the way the Garden was being made ready for the crowds. By this time the first edition had gone to press. “Take your time, now,” said the city editor. “We’ll use the rest in the next edition.” “I’ve got a good story about the freaks,” said Larry, and he began to tell of the mixed-up romance. He was interrupted by a burst of laughter, in which several reporters and Mr. Emberg joined. “It’s true! I saw ’em myself,” exclaimed Larry. “Of course you did,” admitted Mr. Emberg. “It was gotten up for your benefit. The manager sized you up for a new reporter, and thought the old story might go with you, though he must have known that no copy reader would have passed it.” “Isn’t it true?” asked Larry, his faith in human nature somewhat shaken. “It’s one of the oldest press-agent’s yarns that ever did duty in a circus,” said Mr. Newton. “If there were any freaks in the Ark, and they had a press agent, he told that story to the first reporter who interviewed him when Captain Noah’s boat landed on Mount Ararat.” So Larry learned two things that day. One was that things old reporters think are fakes sometimes turn out to be true, and the other was that you can never believe a manager of the freak department of a circus. Both lessons were useful ones. When he went out to lunch, Larry put his hand into the side pocket of his coat. He felt an envelope there, and thinking it was a letter which his mother might have given him to mail, and which he had forgotten, he pulled it out. He at once saw that it was no ordinary letter, for the envelope bore a large blue cross upon it. “Where did that come from,” thought Larry. He opened it. Inside was a small piece of paper, on which was printed: _THREE DAYS MORE. BLUE HAND._ “That was what the tugging at my coat in the crowd at the Garden meant,” reasoned Larry. “Some one of the gang must have been close to me. They must be following me around, and keeping track of me wherever I go.”