“Hello, Central! Give me 4079 Cortlandt! Hello! Is this the Star office? Well, I want Mr. Horton, the city editor.”
Miss Allyn was sitting at the telephone in the drug store, while her two friends waited with their kind benefactor.
In spite of her wrapper and slippers Miss Allyn had insisted upon telephoning. The reportorial habit was too strong to be resisted, and furthermore, it was not often she could get an “exclusive” on such a magnificent news item.
“Hello!” she called again. “Is this the New York Star editorial rooms? Oh, howd’y do, Mr. Horton? This is Alma Allyn.”
Here followed the news item with true newspaper brevity, Miss Allyn giving such a graphic account of the fire and her rescue that her audience burst out laughing.
“Call me ‘Jane Doe,’ or any old thing, Mr. Horton,” she wound up, briefly, “only see that I get an ‘exclusive’ on this. I’m sorry for the fellow at headquarters, but this is mine by rights, I was right ‘in it,’ you know, so it’s bound to be authentic.”
There was a moment’s silence and then Miss Allyn laughed.
“You’d believe it if you could see me. I’m in my wrapper and slippers, and, oh, yes, just stick this in, we have all three just been invited to spend the night at the home of Samuel Haley, of the Central Mission.”
“Oh, no!” gasped the astonished gentleman, who was standing with her friends.
“Can’t be helped now,” said Miss Allyn, calmly, as she “rang off” her telephone.