Just then the automatic fire alarm in the office, which was connected with the regular city system, began to tap the bell with quick, impatient strokes. There was dead silence in the room while all counted the number of the box.
“It’s 313!” exclaimed a reporter. “That’s the gas works—private box!”
“Newton, you and Larry with Smith and Robinson, jump out on that, quick!” exclaimed Mr. Emberg, grabbing for the telephone on his desk. “’Phone the story in!” he added. “We’ll get out an extra if we have to!”
While he was giving these orders, which the four reporters, including Larry, obeyed at once, the city editor was getting into communication with the art department on the floor below.
“Send a photographer up to the gas works!” he called. “Big explosion there. Try and get a picture for the last edition!”
He hung up the receiver with a bang.
“Anderson, you get ready to take the story over the telephone!” Mr. Emberg went on. “You’ll have to grind it out lively!”
Anderson got several pencils ready, arranged his typewriter with a long roll of paper in it, to avoid the necessity of changing sheets when he began to write, and sat down in front of a telephone that was in a booth, where a small table offered a chance to write out the notes he would take when the story began coming in.
“Jackson, call someone on the ’phone near the gas works, and see if you can get a line on how bad it is. We’ll issue a bulletin. Sneadly, get ready to call up the City and St. Elmo’s hospitals as soon as the victims have had a chance to get there. There’s where they’ll probably take ’em, because they are the nearest places.”
In a few minutes what had been a quiet office was transformed into a hive of activity. The reporters were assigned to their tasks, and those in the city room stood with tense nerves waiting for the first news that might tell of a frightful disaster. Mr. Emberg, like a general planning for battle, had posted all his forces where they could do the best and quickest work.