The firemen rushed to the building to greet Kinney and to take his burden from him—it was a big, black dog, slightly overcome by the smoke. As soon as the dog was out in the open air, he pricked up his long ears, thrust out his red tongue and looked around at the people.
A boy darted out from the crowd, and threw himself upon the dog. “It’s Blue,” he blurted. “My very own Blue!” And the dog covered him with licks from his tongue.
“The Flattery kid’s dog,” murmured the crowd, watching the scene.
Then, there sounded, “Dong! Dong!” That meant “Fire’s out.”
Goodness, she’d have to hurry back to the Journal to tell the details she’d gathered to Tim, for Joan knew that the “dead-line” at the Journal was one o’clock. After that, it was too late for stories to get into the paper.
She arrived at the Journal office in time to hear Mr. Nixon yell out into the composing room, “Fix a streamer for the Main Street fire story, Tom.” That meant that Tim’s story was going to have a headline all across the front page in big letters.
Tim was trying not to be excited. He listened respectfully while Joan told her story. “Only the people right up close, who stayed on, knew about the rescue. It’ll be a scoop,” she finished up.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered carelessly. “Still, anything about dogs always goes big. I got all the other details, of course. I’m glad you got names, though. I think I can make a good story about Kinney’s bravery at his first fire.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” agreed his sister.
“You better beat it home to lunch,” Tim ordered Joan. “Tell Mother I’ve got a dead-line to make; that I’ll grab something later on.”