Eyewitness

One afternoon last week the city editor of the New York Evening Post called a rewrite man, handed him a slip from the City News ticker. It was a brief bulletin of a fire in a building near Times Square. The rewrite man, Arthur McCullough, knew what to do. He thumbed through a reversed telephone directory (classified by address), called a number listed for the building. That telephone had been disconnected. At random he called another telephone in the same building. A man "with a voice that was both urbane and cheery" answered. In its next edition the Post published the conversation: "

This is the Evening Post. We understand there's a fire in your neighborhood."

"It's right in our building," answered the voice politely. "I'm glad you called me. I understand I'm the only one left in the building."

"Are you leaving now?"

"Not right away. The fire's down in the basement. . . ."

"Is there much smoke in your office?"

Yes, plenty, but I manage to breathe by occasionally going to the window."

"Well how's the fire going, Mr. -- Mr.--"

"Akins," supplied the voice politely. "Bryant Akins. Just a minute and I'll see.

. . . Well, the firemen have just put a ladder to my window. I'm glad to know it's there in case I need it.

Later Reporter McCullough telephoned again, learned that Mr. Akins had spurned the ladder, was coolly resuming work.

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