# Larry Dexter, Reporter/Chapter 25

pp. 204–211.
CHAPTER XXV
THE LAST WARNING
“Crack!”
Larry fired the revolver. It was an automatic one, and all he had to do was to pull the trigger. Right at the face of the lion he aimed it, as the animal was in the air above him.
“Crack! Crack! Crack!”
Streaks of fire from the heavy cartridges shot in the direction of the beast.
“Crack!”
It was the last shot. As he fired it Larry leaped to one side to escape the lion's claws. Then he cast the revolver at the beast, and fled.
But there was no need of this. Cowed by the streaks of flame, and the noise of the reports, the brute, who had been only slightly wounded, had no sooner landed on the sawdust, than, with tail between its legs, it started back toward the cage it had left.
“Chase after him, some of you fellows!” shouted the head trainer. “His nerve's gone now. That boy has more sense and grit than the whole lot of you!”
Now that the danger was practically over, the attendants ran back, and toward the lion's wagon. The brute, though still growling and roaring, had leaped into its broken cage, where it stood crouching in one corner.
“Quick, now; wheel another cage up in front of the broken one!” the trainer exclaimed. “That will hold him until we can fix his.”
This was soon done, and all further danger was past.
“I'm much obliged to you,” the trainer said, coming up to Larry, having taken the hot irons back. “It was a nervy bit of work.”
“I guess if I'd stopped to think I'd never have done it,” replied Larry.
“That's all right, my lad, and it was well done, just the same. If Nero had gotten loose, the way he's feeling now, and once got the taste of human blood, there's no telling what might have happened.”
The trainer drew a pad from his pocket, and wrote a few lines on it, handing the paper to Larry.
“What's this?” asked the reporter.
“It's a pass for you and any friend you want to bring along, to come and see the show,” the trainer replied. “It's good for two box seats at any performance, and as often as you like to come.”
“I don't believe I'd better take it,” said Larry. “I didn't stop the lion for pay, and besides the office might not like it.”
“Don't let that worry you,” responded the trainer. “I know what you mean; you don't want to 'graft' the way a lot of fellows do who think they're newspaper men. But that is all right. A real newspaper man never grafts, but this pass isn't graft. We always send the newspapers lots of tickets, anyhow. It's part of our advertising contract. This is simply an extra one for yourself, as a sort of recognition for what you did, though it doesn't begin to pay for the trouble you saved us.”
“If you think it's all right I'll take it,” Larry answered.
“Of course it is. Come to the show, and see Nero go through his paces.”
Men by this time had come up to repair the broken cage, and with a nod of farewell, the trainer left Larry, as there were many things to attend to toward getting the circus into shape. Larry wandered about the big Garden, seeing odd little incidents that he made use of in his newspaper story.
He found the manager in charge of the freaks, and introducing himself, Larry started to ask if there was anything new that might make a story.
“Well, yes, here is a little item you might work in,” replied the manager, looking at Larry in what the reporter thought was a strange sort of way. “We've a romance on our hands.”
“A romance?”
“Yes, you see the living skeleton has gone and fallen in love with the fat woman.”
“Really?” asked Larry, thinking the manager might be trying to “string” him.
“Of course. Come out and have a talk with him. But that isn't the worst. You see, the fat lady is smitten with the India rubber man, and the bearded lady has gone and fallen in love with the living skeleton, so you see, things are all mixed up. Come out into the freak room, and see for yourself.”
Wondering whether to believe the story or not, Larry followed the manager. He found the freaks all sitting in one corner of the Garden, on a sort of raised platform. Sure enough the living skeleton was gazing with a sort of lorn expression at the fat lady, who, in turn, was making eyes at the India rubber gentleman, who was practicing stretching his neck until the skin of it almost touched his forehead. The bearded lady, who was combing her whiskers every now and then, glanced in the direction of the living skeleton, who was shivering, though the day was warm.
“You can see for yourself,” spoke the manager, in a whisper. “Don't make fun of 'em, if you write it up.”
“I'll be careful,” replied Larry, thinking he had found something that would fit in the circus story very well.
Having about all the material he needed, and seeing that the hour was getting late, Larry decided to go back to the office. He found himself in quite a crowd of men and boys who were hanging around the entrance to the Garden, as he came out. He thought he felt a hand in the side pocket of his coat, as he worked his way through the throng, but, as he knew he had nothing of value in it, he decided, even if it was a pickpocket, he would not stop then to try to capture him. So he pressed on. He was just in time to catch a car for the office, and gave the incident no further thought.
“Well, did you get a good story?” asked Mr. Emberg, as Larry entered the city room.
“Pretty good; one of the lions got loose.”
“Don't let them work any press-agent yarns off on you,” cautioned the city editor, with a smile, for he was used to such stories from circuses.
“This is true,” replied Larry. “I saw it myself. In fact, I fired a revolver at Nero to drive him back.”
“Was it Nero who was loose?” asked Mr. Newton, overhearing what Larry said.
“That's what they called him. He seemed ugly enough to be Nero.”
“Then it's no fake, if you saw Nero loose,” went on Mr. Newton. “He's the worst lion in captivity. That ought to be a good story.”
“Why in the world didn't you telephone it in?” asked Mr. Emberg. “You might have been beaten by some of the early editions of the yellows. Hurry up, now, make that the feature of your story.”
Somewhat chagrined over his failure to have appreciated the real news value of the lion incident, Larry began to turn out copy as fast as he could write. Mr. Emberg read it.
“You're doing all right!” he called to Larry. “It is as good a circus story as we've had in a long time. Keep it up.”
Larry told of everything in connection with the escape of Nero, and then began to describe the different scenes, including the way the Garden was being made ready for the crowds. By this time the first edition had gone to press.
“Take your time, now,” said the city editor. “We'll use the rest in the next edition.”
“I've got a good story about the freaks,” said Larry, and he began to tell of the mixed-up romance.
He was interrupted by a burst of laughter, in which several reporters and Mr. Emberg joined.
“It's true! I saw 'em myself,” exclaimed Larry.
“Of course you did,” admitted Mr. Emberg. “It was gotten up for your benefit. The manager sized you up for a new reporter, and thought the old story might go with you, though he must have known that no copy reader would have passed it.”
“Isn't it true?” asked Larry, his faith in human nature somewhat shaken.
“It's one of the oldest press-agent's yarns that ever did duty in a circus,” said Mr. Newton. “If there were any freaks in the Ark, and they had a press agent, he told that story to the first reporter who interviewed him when Captain Noah's boat landed on Mount Ararat.”
So Larry learned two things that day. One was that things old reporters think are fakes sometimes turn out to be true, and the other was that you can never believe a manager of the freak department of a circus. Both lessons were useful ones.
When he went out to lunch, Larry put his hand into the side pocket of his coat. He felt an envelope there, and thinking it was a letter which his mother might have given him to mail, and which he had forgotten, he pulled it out. He at once saw that it was no ordinary letter, for the envelope bore a large blue cross upon it.
“Where did that come from,” thought Larry. He opened it. Inside was a small piece of paper, on which was printed:
THREE DAYS MORE. BLUE HAND.
“That was what the tugging at my coat in the crowd at the Garden meant,” reasoned Larry. “Some one of the gang must have been close to me. They must be following me around, and keeping track of me wherever I go.”
At first this thought alarmed him. It was unpleasant to feel that someone was always looking at you, knowing your every movement so well that they could slip up, and drop notes into your pocket. Larry felt his courage leaving him. He half determined to agree to the gang's wishes. Then, as he thought of what Mr. Newton had said, he grew braver, and decided to fight to the end.
That night, going home, Larry was in quite a crowd on the elevated train. He tried to keep watch, and see if anyone dropped anything into his pockets, but the crowd was so dense that it would have been an easy matter for a person to approach him closely, and escape detection.
So Larry was not greatly surprised, when, on reaching the street, he found another missive, in the same language.
The same thing happened on two successive nights. Try as he did he could discover no one, however. He began to be quite nervous. A person who could steal up on him in a crowd, unknown to him, and drop letters into his pocket, was clearly a dangerous customer, Larry reasoned.
On Saturday night, as he left the train, he felt a suspicious tug at his coat pocket. He turned quickly, and caught a glimpse of a youth hurrying through the crowd.
“If that wasn't Peter Manton I'll eat my hat,” thought Larry.
He drew out the letter, which, in accordance with his expectations, he found. It read:
THIS IS THE LAST WARNING.