“Not at all. It just needs common sense. Go ahead now, cover it for me,” and with this Mr. Rosberg hurried out of the room, leaving Larry standing there, holding the two concert tickets.
“Take some one with you—your best girl,” the older reporter called back, and he caught the elevator, and rapidly descended to the street.
“Well, I guess I’m in for it,” mused Larry, as he looked at the tickets in his hand. They were choice seats, he noted, and, had he been obliged to buy them, they would have cost five dollars. That was one advantage of being a reporter.
“Take my girl with me,” went on the young reporter. “Well, why not? I wonder if Molly Mason wouldn’t like to go?” and Larry’s thoughts went to the pretty department-store clerk, who had helped him solve the million-dollar bank mystery. “I’ll call her on the ’phone. She can’t have left the store yet,” he went on. A few minutes later he listened to her rapturous acceptance.
“Oh, Larry!” she exclaimed, “of course I’ll be delighted to go. I’ve just got a new dress, and, oh, it’s awfully nice of you to ask me, I’m sure.”
“I’m being nice to myself,” answered Larry. “All right; I’ll call for you about eight.”
And so that was how, a few hours afterward, Larry rolled up to the modest apartment house where Molly Mason lived, the young reporter arriving in a taxicab.
“Oh, what luxurious extravagance!” exclaimed Molly, as she sank down on the cushions. “Why did you do it?”
“Oh, as long as I’m going to report a swell concert I might as well do it in style,” replied Larry. “I hope you’ll like it.”
“Oh, I know I shall!” she exclaimed.