“Carl,” he said, “I’m in a queer position. I have no business to be here at all. I ought to be in Springfield. My managing editor thinks I am there. Gee! He might even have been trying to get me. He may have some orders for me. I never thought of that. I could slip right back there and maybe he’d never know the difference. But here’s a story. It’s a good story, even if I did have a part in it. The _Press_ ought to have it. Maybe we can scoop the other New York papers on it. I’m going to shoot it in as quick as I can, no matter what the Old Man says about my taking too much rope. He can fire me if he wants to. But I’m not going to see the _Press_ beaten on its own story. Gee! He’d fire me for that, sure. How can I get to a telegraph office quickest?” “In a motor car, I should think. Thank heaven the barn didn’t burn. Our car is in it. I’ll pull on some trousers and——By Jove! I don’t own any trousers. They are all burned up. I’ll go as I am. And I’ll get you to the telegraph office as fast as gasoline will take us.” He did. Jimmy ran into the office and began to write. He handed the sheets to the operator as fast as they were written, with the injunction to rush the stuff. The operator ticked off the story as Jimmy wrote. Because he was full of the matter, and because he could see so vividly in his mind the scene he was describing, Jimmy once more wrote a gripping story. He told in simple words how the pilot of the _Morning Press_ plane, flying over Wilbraham, had noticed flames issuing from a hillside home; how the pilot had awakened the sleeping inmates by diving at the house with roaring motor; how later the pilot and a farm boy had saved the life of a lad trapped in the third floor of the burning building; and how this rescued youth had proved to be a lifelong friend of the pilot. “Gee,” said Jimmy, when he had finished the story, “I slipped up there. I forgot to get the name of that farm boy. I’ll let it go now, but I’ll be more careful next time.” Then he wrote another message. It was to the managing editor. At once the managing editor got into touch with him by telephone. “We have further news about the New Hampshire flood,” he said. “It’s even bigger than I thought. I’m sorry I didn’t send another man with you.” “I’ve got a friend here,” answered Jimmy, “who could help me if you are willing. It’s the lad we just saved from the fire. He’s an old friend. I can make good use of him. Shall I take him?” “Get anybody you can who can help you,” was the answer. Jimmy called out to Carl: “Could you go on up to New Hampshire with me and help me cover a flood story?” “If they can spare me at home, I’ll go gladly if it will help you any.” Jimmy turned back to the telephone. “I think it is all right, Mr. Johnson,” he said.