McNeill, Paul Finnegan alias the "Count," and a score or more of
men, as good as ever touched a key or balanced a quad. A day's work was
from eight A. M., until five P. M., and for all over time we were paid
extra at the rate of forty cents per hour. This extra work was called
"Scooping."

One day in December, Clarke asked me if I wanted to "scoop" that night.
I acquiesced and after eating a hasty supper I went back to the office
and prepared for a long siege. I was put to sending press reports, which
is just about as hard work as a man can do. I sent "30" (the end) at two
o'clock in the morning, and went home worn to a frazzle. I was boarding
on Avenue M. with ten other operators, in a house kept by a Mrs.
Swanson, and roomed with her little son Jimmie, who was a hopeless
cripple. I undressed, and after shoving little Jim over to his own side
of the bed, tumbled in and was soon sleeping like a log. It seemed as if
I had just closed my eyes when I felt some one pulling my hair. I
knocked the hand away and prepared to take another snooze, when there
was that awful pull on my red head again. I opened my eyes prepared to
fight, when I felt an extra hard pull, and heard the wee sma' voice of
my diminutive room mate say,

"Get up, the house is on fire." "Rats," I said--Again,--the awful
pull,--and,--"Mr. Bates, for God's sake get up; the house is on fire;
the whole town is burning up."

I sprang out of bed and the crackling of the timbers, the glow of the
flames, and the stifling smoke, soon assured me it was time to move, and
quickly at that. I grabbed up a few clothes in one arm, and grasping
brave little Jimmie Swanson in the other, I started for the steps. On
our side, the whole house was in flames, and the smoke rushing up the
stair-way was something awful. I wrapped Jimmie's head in his night
shirt, and throwing a coat over mine, I started down the stairs. Half
way down my foot slipped, and we both pitched head first to the bottom.
Poor little Jim, his right arm was broken by the fall, and when he tried
to get up, he found that his one sound leg was badly strained. He said,

"Never mind me, Mr. Bates, save yourself. I'll crawl out."

Leave him to roast alive? Never! I grabbed him again and after a
desperate effort succeeded in getting him out. All our supply of
clothing had been lost in our mad efforts to escape, and as a bitter
norther was blowing at the time, our position was anything but pleasant.
I found a few