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Page 3
"Just came in over our special wire," said Mr. Whiggen. "Looks as if
it might be a bad wreck. That's a dangerous coast. I thought you
might like to send one of your men down to cover it."
"Thanks," replied the city editor. "I will. Let's see," and, while
he read the message, a score of reporters in the room looked up to
see what had caused the telegraph editor to come in with such a
rush.
This is what Mr. Emberg read from the slip Mr. Whiggen handed him:
"BULLETIN.--S.S. _Olivia_ ashore off Seven Mile Beach, on sand bar.
Big steerage list, some cabin passengers--fruit cargo. Ship badly
listed, but may get off at high tide. If not, liable to break up in
storm. Passengers safe yet.--ASSOCIATED PRESS."
There followed a brief description of the vessel, compiled from the
maritime register, giving her tonnage, size, and when built.
"Um," remarked Mr. Emberg when he had read the short message, which
was what newspaper men call a "flash" or bulletin, intended to
notify the journals of the barest facts of the story. "This looks as
if it would amount to something. I'll send a man down. Have we any
one there?"
"We've got a man in Ocean City," replied the telegraph editor, "but
I'm afraid I can't reach him. Have to depend on the Associated Press
until we can get some one down."
"All right, I'll send right away."
The telegraph editor went back to his sanctum on the run, for it was
near first-edition time and he wanted to get a display head written
for the wreck story. Mr. Emberg looked over the room, in which many
reporters were at work, most of them typewriting stories as fast as
their fingers could fly over the keys. Several of the news-gatherers
who had heard the conversation between the two editors hoped they
might be sent on that assignment, for though it meant hard work it
was a chance to get out of the city for a while.
"Are you up, Newton?" asked Mr. Emberg of a reporter in the far
corner of the room.
"No, I've got that political story to write yet."
"That's so. I can't spare you. How about you, Larry?"
"I'm up," was the answer, which is the newspaper man's way of saying
his particular task is finished.
"Here, then, jump out on this," and the city editor handed the
telegram to a tall, good-looking youth, who arose from his desk near
a window.
Larry Dexter, who had risen from the rank of office boy to reporter,
took in the message at a glance.
"Shall I start now?" he asked.
"As soon as you can get a train. Seven Mile Beach is down on the
Jersey coast, near Anglesea. You can't get there in time to wire us
anything for to-day, but rush a good story for to-morrow. If a storm
comes up, and they have to rescue the passengers, it will make a
corker. Don't be afraid of slinging your words if it turns out worth
while. Here's an order on the cashier for some money. Hustle now,"
and Mr. Emberg scribbled down something on a slip of paper which he
handed to the young reporter.
"Leave the message in the telegraph room as you go out," went on
the city editor. "Mr. Whiggen may want it. Hustle now, Larry, and do
your best."
Many envious eyes followed Larry Dexter as he hurried out of the
city room, putting on his coat and hat as he went, for he had been
working in his shirt sleeves.
Larry went down the long corridor, stopping in the telegraph room to
leave the message which was destined to be responsible for his part
in a series of strange events. He had little idea, as he left the
_Leader_ office that morning, that his assignment to get the story
of the wreck was the beginning of a singular mystery.
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