THE KIND OF A FELLOW BILLINGS WAS.
“YES, Billings must be afraid,” said Myles, to himself, “and I don’t
know but what I would be, too, if I were such a white-faced little chap
as he is.” Here Myles threw back his own broad shoulders, held his head
a trifle higher than usual, and rejoiced in the stalwart frame that had
been such an ornament in the X——“‘Varsity” boat. “I wonder what Mr.
Haxall meant,” he continued to himself, “by speaking of him as one of
the best reporters on the _Phonograph_. If he should see him at this
moment I rather think he would call him something else. How little a
city editor can really know of his men any way!”
While thus thinking Myles was threading the unfamiliar streets of a
city as strange to him as though it had been a hundred miles from New
York, in search of the car-stables of the B—— Avenue line.
It took him so long to find them that, when he finally did so, the car
on which he was ordered to ride had been gone some ten minutes. There
was nothing to do but overtake it if possible, and the young reporter
started down the track at the same pace he was accustomed to set for
his crew when they were out for a “sweater,” as they called their
training runs.
After running half-a-dozen blocks he began to meet signs of the strike.
Here was a broken and overturned market-wagon that had evidently been
placed across the track as a barricade, and there a place from which
some paving-stones had been torn up. Now he began to be joined by
others running in the same direction with himself, and to hear a noise
different from the ordinary sounds of the city. As he rounded a corner
this noise resolved itself into the shouts, cheers, and yells of an
angry mob, and above all rang out sharply an occasional pistol-shot.
The street was filled with hundreds of excited men and boys, whose
number was constantly increasing. They were all crowding toward some
object of common interest which, when he got close enough to make it
out, Myles saw was the very car in which he had been ordered to ride.
It was occupied by a dozen or so of policemen, and was slowly urging
its way forward with frequent halts, while another squad of policemen
cleared a passage for it through the crowd. Every now and then a
paving-stone crashed through a window or splintered the woodwork of
the car. A throng of reckless men surged alongside of it, trying in
every way they could think of to impede its progress. The company had
declared this car should go through. The strikers declared it should
not. They tried to lift it from the rails, to overturn it, to drag the
driver from his platform, to kill the horses, or in some other way to
stop that car.
By a steady use of their long, powerful night-clubs, the police who
guarded the car had thus far kept the mob at bay, and prevented them
from accomplishing their purpose.
[Illustration: A HOARSE VOICE SHOUTED THE OMINOUS WORD “SPOTTER.”
(_Page 69._)]
Through this angry throng Myles now began to make his way, for he had
been sent to ride with those policemen, and he was determined to do
so if it were a possible thing. At first he had comparatively little
trouble; but as he approached the thick of the crowd he was obliged
to push so roughly, and make such decided efforts to get ahead, as
to draw attention upon himself. At first he was only shoved, and his
way was purposely blocked. Then the looks of those about him began to
grow black and threatening. A hoarse voice shouted the ominous word,
“spotter.” The cry was taken up and repeated by a hundred throats. Then
Myles received a savage blow from behind. The crowd had recognized
that he was not of them, and blindly argued that he must therefore be
against them. The situation was a critical one, and Myles realized it.
He was now hemmed in so closely on all sides that to retreat would be
impossible even had he thought of such a thing, but he did not. His one
idea was still to get to the car, and under a shower of blows, that he
warded to the best of his ability, or bore unflinchingly, he struggled
forward. All of his strength, pluck, and skill, however, could not save
him, and within two minutes he was borne to the ground by the sheer
force of numbers, while some of his enemies fell on top of him.
At that moment there came a quick measured tramp of feet, a backward
movement of the mob, and the crash of tough locust clubs. The police
were charging to the rescue of the brave young fellow. He struggled to
his feet bruised, breathless, hatless, with clothing torn and covered
with dust, but with unbroken bones and undaunted spirit.
“Who are you? and what do you mean by making such a row?” demanded the
roundsman who led the charging party, as he laid his hand heavily on
Myles’ shoulder.
“A reporter from the _Phonograph_, who was ordered to ride on that car,
and means to if he can fight his way to it,” was the answer.
“I might have known it,” said the officer, with a resigned air. “You
reporters do beat the world for getting us cops into trouble. The idea
of a chap like you undertaking to fight that whole crowd! Nobody but a
crank or a reporter would think of such a thing. It’s a good thing to
carry out orders when you can, but it’s a better to use common-sense
and not attempt to undertake impossibilities.”
“I was only trying to find out whether it was an impossibility or not,”
laughed Myles.
While they thus talked the officer led his party of police back to the
car. It had stopped while its defenders charged the mob, and now it
again started ahead. Hardly had it got into motion when, with a wild
yell, the mob came charging back upon it, and with a tremendous crash
the car was lifted from the track and hurled upon its side. It was a
full minute before Myles succeeded in clearing himself from the wreck
and again scrambling to his feet. As he was rubbing the dirt from his
eyes, and thinking what a particularly lively occupation this business
of reporting was, he heard a familiar voice call out:
“I say, new man—I don’t remember your name—why don’t you come up
here? You can get an elegant view of the scrimmage.”
Myles could hardly believe it, but nevertheless it was really Billings,
as beautifully neat and clean as ever, perched up on the side of the
overturned car, calmly surveying the scene of tumult, and apparently
unconscious of the missiles and occasional pistol-shots that flew past
him.
Myles clambered up to a position beside his temporary chief, exclaiming
as he did so:
“How on earth do you happen to be here just now! and why do you choose
such an exposed place?”
“Oh, I just came down here with the inspector to see the fun, as
we heard the situation was becoming interesting. I chose this place
because I’m a reporter and I can see better what to report from up here
than I could down there in the crowd.”
“But you are in great danger of getting hit up here.”
“Oh, no, they wouldn’t hit me. See how scared they are if I only just
look at them.”
Billings had an open note-book in his hand, and Myles saw with
amazement that whenever he fixed his eyes upon any particular person or
group in the crowd, and pretended to be taking notes in his book, these
persons immediately turned their backs or slunk away.
“Well, that beats all!” he exclaimed. “What do you do and how do you do
it?”
“I don’t do any thing, only look at ’em. They think, though, that I
am drawing their pictures for one of the illustrated papers, and they
don’t want to be spotted by having their likenesses printed.”
A few minutes later the mob had been pretty thoroughly dispersed, and
Billings said:
“Well, this shindy is about finished, so let’s get back to
head-quarters and grind out a little copy.”
As they walked back together Myles’ opinion of Billings’ courage was
very different from what it had been a short time before, and he said
to himself:
“I believe the little chap is made up of pure grit after all.”
At the police-station Billings coolly took possession of the
inspector’s room and writing-table. He seated Myles at one end of this,
and, providing him with pen and paper, told him to write out the story
of his recent experience. At the same time he threw off his coat and
began to write his own report with such rapidity that Myles marvelled
at it.
By the time the latter had laboriously thought out and written four
sheets of copy, which contained all that he considered worth relating
of what he had seen, Billings had covered twenty or more sheets that
lay, strewn like autumn leaves, on the floor about his chair. As Myles’
pen ceased its scratching Billings looked up and asked:
“Got through?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Well, you have been short and sweet. I’ve just begun; but then I’m on
space, you know, and that makes all the difference. By the way, I wish
you would run up to Williamsburg and look around a bit. I understand
there’s to be a secret meeting of strikers held over there somewhere,
and we ought to know something about it.”
Myles started at once, only stopping on the way to buy himself a hat,
and, as it was late, to get a bit of something to eat at a miserable
restaurant, which was the only one he could find. Then for hours he
walked the streets of that part of Brooklyn known as Williamsburg,
knowing no more than the man in the moon where to look for the secret
meeting. He inquired of all the street-car men he could find, in every
saloon he saw, and of several policemen, but could get no information
concerning it. Finally, late at night, worn out and discouraged, he
concluded that no meeting had been held, and returned to the place
where he had left Billings, only to find that the young man had gone
back to New York some hours before.
It was after midnight when Myles reached the _Phonograph_ office and
reported to the night city editor, who sat at the desk used by Mr.
Haxall in the daytime, that he had been unsuccessful in his attempt to
discover the meeting. He was about to add that he did not believe any
had been held, when the busy night man interrupted him with:
“Oh, that’s all right. Billings got what there was of it and turned it
in an hour ago.”
After waiting in the bustling place a few minutes longer, a stranger
among strangers, Myles concluded that he was only in the way and had
better go home. When he reached the tiny room that was now the only
place he could call his own, he was physically and mentally exhausted
by the hardest day’s work he had ever done.
Myles was awakened the next morning by a knock at his door and Van
Cleef’s voice inquiring if he were not ready to go out for breakfast.
“Excuse me for waking you,” said Van Cleef, as Myles appeared, “but I
was so anxious to hear of your first day’s experience that I hated to
leave the house without seeing you. How did you get on? What did Mr.
Haxall say about the dress-suit? And what was your first assignment?”
“Oh, I got on after a fashion. He said it was all right, and my first
assignment was to go out and buy some sandwiches for his lunch.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes, honestly, that was the very first thing he gave me to do.”
“Well, you have begun with the rudiments of reporting. Was that all you
had to do?”
“Oh, no; I was sent over to Brooklyn to fight a mob.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say. Look at my clothes, and this new hat that I had to
buy to replace the one lost in the fight, if you don’t believe me.”
Here Myles glanced ruefully at his coat and trousers, that still bore
tokens of their recent hard usage. Then buying a _Phonograph_ from a
newsboy, and pointing to the leading article on the first page, which
was a three-column story of the street-car strike, he said:
“There’s my job.”
“That!” exclaimed Van Cleef, incredulously, as he noted the heading and
length of the article. “Why, I thought Billings was doing that strike.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Myles, carelessly, “there was a little chap named
Billings over there who worked with me.”
“‘A little chap named Billings who worked with me.’ Ho, ho! ha, ha!”
shouted Van Cleef. “If that isn’t good! I only wish ‘Old Bills,’ as
the boys call him, could hear you say that. Really, though, how much
did you write of this?”
“Well, I really did write something; but I as really can’t find a word
of it in this article. I declare, though, if here isn’t an account of
that secret meeting in Williamsburg that I walked my feet off looking
for and couldn’t find. How do you suppose the paper got hold of it?”
“Why, I suppose some Associated-Press man stumbled across it and sent
it in. Then, of course, it was turned over to Billings, as he had
charge of all the strike matter, and he worked it into his story. But
where did you look for that meeting?”
“Everywhere.”
“Did you go to the police-stations and inquire of the sergeants, or to
the head-quarters of any of the trades-unions?”
“Why, no,” answered Myles, reflectively. “I never thought of those
places.”
“Oh, well,” said Van Cleef, consolingly, “you can’t learn it all in
a day; but you’ll soon get the hang of news-gathering. I am sorry,
though, that your screed didn’t get printed.”
“There is an account here of running that car over the line, giving the
names of the officers who were on board and of the driver, but it never
occurred to me to get those, nor is the rest of it at all as I wrote
it. It is a great deal better than mine was.”
“Probably Billings took your stuff and worked it over,” suggested the
other. “You see it all counts as space for him, and he thought, as you
are on salary, it wouldn’t make any difference to you.”
“What do you mean by ‘space’?” asked Myles. “I heard the word several
times yesterday, but didn’t understand it.”
“Why, most New York reporters are ‘space men’—that is, they do not
receive a regular sum of money every week, without regard to how much
or how little they have in the paper, but are paid so much per column
for what they get printed. The _Phonograph_ and one or two other
papers, for instance, pay eight dollars per column, while others pay
seven, six, and so on down to three dollars per column.”
“Do the space men generally make more than fifteen dollars a week?”
“Well I should say they did! Why, on the _Phonograph_ they will average
five dollars a day right along, and in good weeks some of them make
sixty, seventy, and even as high as a hundred dollars a week. There is
Billings, for instance. If this three-column story is all his, as it
probably is, there is twenty-four dollars for him for a single day’s
work.”
“It seems to me I should prefer to be on space,” said Myles.
“So would most fellows. There is not only more money in it, but it is
more exciting, and more like regular business. On the _Phonograph_,
though, all new men have to serve an apprenticeship at a small salary
for a long time before they are entitled to go on space.”
“How long?” asked Myles.
“It depends entirely on the fellow himself. Some have to wait years.
Others make their stories so interesting and prove such valuable
reporters that they can demand to be put on space within a few months.
Billings, I believe, was only three months on salary.”
“Who is this Billings, any way?”
“I don’t know exactly who he is. He comes from the West, somewhere;
Chicago, I believe; but he is one of the very best all-round reporters
in the city, as well as one of the coolest and pluckiest fellows in a
tight place I ever heard of. They tell the story of him that one day,
while he was working for a Chicago paper, he was sent out to report
an anarchist meeting. He was with the police when a lighted bomb was
thrown almost at his feet. Everybody scattered—police and all—but
Billings deliberately picked the thing up and plunged it into a barrel
of water close at hand that some masons were using in front of a new
building. Oh, he’s a cool one, and you can count on him every time.
He is one of the best chaps going, too, and always ready to help a
fellow-reporter who is out of luck. By the way, that little story of
mine about the suicide brought in twelve dollars, sent to the city
editor in small sums, for the benefit of the family. I took it to the
woman last night.”
“Well,” said Myles, “I never thought of a newspaper as a charitable
institution before.”
“You didn’t! Well, they are; and the _Phonograph_ distributes more
cash charity every year than any one of the regular societies for the
purpose in the city.”
Here the two separated, and Myles started downtown wondering what novel
experience this day might hold in store for him.