Larry did want some.  He was conscious of a woeful lack of something in his stomach, and the coffee braced him up in a way he very much needed.

It was quite a distance from the life-saving station to the nearest telegraph office, but Larry knew he must make it if he wanted an account of the wreck to get to his paper in time for the edition that day.  So he set off for a tiresome trudge over the wet sand.  As he was leaving, several men, who had been brought ashore from the ship, came to the station.  From them Larry learned that part of the ship was likely to last until all the passengers and crew could be saved.  He then resolved to telegraph the story of the saving of all, knowing he could make corrections by an additional message later in case, by some accident, any lives were lost.

To get to the telegraph office Larry had to go back to a point nearly opposite where the life savers were working, and then strike inland.  As he was hurrying along he came to a little hummock of sand, from which elevation he could look down on the beach and see the crowd gathered about the breeches buoy.  Out on the bar he could make out the wrecked vessel.  As he stood there a moment he saw some one detach himself from the crowd and hurry across the intervening beach.

“That figure looks familiar,” thought Larry.  “I wonder if that’s Bailey the fisherman?”

He waited a few minutes, and the figure became more distinct.

“It’s Peter Manton!” cried Larry.  “He’s been sent down here to report the wreck!  I wonder what paper he’s on?  But I guess I haven’t any time to stand here wondering.  I’ve got to beat him to the telegraph office if I want to get a scoop, though he can’t have been on hand long enough to get much of an account.”

Still Larry knew that even a brief and poor account of anything, if it got in first, was enough to discount or “take the edge off” a better story told later, and he made up his mind he would “scoop” Peter, his old enemy.

The representative of the Leader hurried on.  Peter caught sight of Larry, and recognized him in spite of his oilskins.  Peter wore a rain-coat, which was wet through.

“Hold on, Larry!” he cried.  “I’m on the Scorcher again.  What have you got?”

It was the newspaper man’s way of asking his brother-of-the-pencil for such information as he possessed.  But though, as a general thing, when several reporters are on a general story, they interchange common news, Larry was in no mind to share what he had with Peter.  His paper had gone to the trouble to send him down in good season, a piece of forethought which the other journals’ editors had neglected.  Therefor Larry felt that he was not violating the common practice (though it is against the strict office rules) if he ignored Peter.

“Haven’t time!” he called back.

“Wait a minute!” cried the rival reporter.  “I just came down on the first train, and I walked about five miles to find the wreck.  I’m going to the telegraph office to send my account in for an extra.  We’ll whack up on it.”