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,"