[Illustration: “ALMOST A CROWD, FOR RUSSELLVILLE, STOOD IN FRONT OF THE
DRUG STORE.”]
THE YOUNG REPORTER
A Story of Printing House Square.
BY
WILLIAM DRYSDALE,
_Author of “Abel Forefinger,” “In Sunny Lands,”
“Proverbs from Plymouth Pulpit,” etc._
ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES COPELAND.
[Illustration: Colophon]
BOSTON:
W. A. WILDE & COMPANY,
25 BROMFIELD STREET.
COPYRIGHT, 1895,
By W. A. WILDE & COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
THE YOUNG REPORTER.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A NIGHT IN THE TRANSPORT OFFICE 7
II. THE PRINTER BOY BECOMES A REPORTER 24
III. THE STOLEN LOCOMOTIVE 40
IV. A WILD NIGHT ON NEW YORK BAY 64
V. “SHADOWING” THE CHIEF OF POLICE 83
VI. HOW DICK SPURNED A BRIBE 102
VII. DICK LANDS IN MEXICO WITH A FAMILY 119
VIII. A VOYAGE TO PORTO RICO 139
IX. A STRANDED SHIP AND A BOARD OF SURVEY 158
X. DICK MEETS A FIGHTING PREACHER 181
XI. THE “HOODOOED” STEAMBOAT 201
XII. A NARROW ESCAPE IN ARKANSAS 221
XIII. DICK BEGINS TO WRITE A NOVEL 240
XIV. A NIGHT RIDE ON A FIRE ENGINE 260
XV. “THE THROUGH SLEEPER” 280
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
“Almost a crowd, for Russellville, stood in
front of the drugstore” _Frontispiece_ 12
“You’re just in time, Randall” 59
“What’s the matter, old fellow?” 128
“He snatched an iron belaying-pin from its
socket and sprang forward” 179
“On they flew, faster and faster, every moment” 266
THE YOUNG REPORTER.
CHAPTER I.
A NIGHT IN THE TRANSPORT OFFICE.
The big clock in The Russellville Record office said half-past three,
and Dick Sumner stood in front of his case distributing type.
“It’s a dark day,” he said to himself, glancing at the window, “and
I’m afraid I feel rather dark myself. But that won’t do;” and he
straightened himself up and began to drop the types faster than ever.
Dick was the “last boy” in the Record office and had all of a last
boy’s privileges: the privilege of sweeping the office, making the
fires, washing the rollers, doing all the dirty work.
“It’s a long day, too,” he said as he took up the next handful of type.
“I wish that clock would move a little faster.”
Not that he was in a hurry to get away from his work. That would not
have been like Dick at all, for his heart was in the business, and
there was nothing too hard or too inky for him to undertake. It was
because he thought his fate was to be decided that evening that he was
anxious for evening to come. And so it was, but very differently from
the way he expected. He considered it an eventful day in his life, but
he had no idea how very eventful it was to be.
The trouble was that the three dollars a week he was earning in the
Record office was not enough for him to make. It did very well when
he went into the office, about a year before, when his father was
alive and his money was not needed at home; but since then his father
had died and left hardly anything for the support of the family. Dick
felt that it was his place to take care of his mother and his sister
Florrie, but he could not do it on three dollars a week. By giving
up his place and going to work in the saw-mill he could earn about
a dollar and a half a day, for he was large and strong for a boy of
eighteen; but if he did that he could hardly hope for advancement, and
it would put an end to his learning the trade he liked better than any
other.
That was the problem in the Sumner family, and as he dropped the
letters into their boxes, Dick could not help thinking about it.
Inclination said: “Stick to your trade;” and Duty said--well, there
was a difficulty, for he was not sure what Duty said. On the one hand
he was learning the trade of his choice, and after a while his wages
would increase; but on the other hand the dollar and a half a day was
greatly needed at home.
If his mother had advised him one way or the other, Dick would have
followed her advice on the instant; but she was as undecided about it
as Dick was. They had had many serious talks about it, Mrs. Sumner and
Dick and Florrie, without making up their minds; but the time had come
when Mrs. Sumner must begin to make a little money by sewing, or else
Dick must leave the Record office and go to the saw-mill.
“Think it over this afternoon, Dick,” she said when he went away after
dinner, “and to-night we will decide it one way or the other.”
There was not the least doubt in Dick’s mind, as he kept the types
click, click, clicking into their boxes, that he was to be either a
printer or a saw-mill hand. There were just two fates before him, he
thought, and that night was to decide between them. But he was mistaken.
No wonder the clock moved slowly. He was about to take up another
handful of type, when there came a summons that he was accustomed to
hearing so often that it always made him smile:--
“Here, Dick!”
The call came from the editor’s room in the front. The Record office is
a small place, with only two rooms. In the front room the editor sits
with his pen and shears and his pile of exchanges; and in the back
room the three printers work. The door between them always stands open.
“Yes, sir!” Dick answered; and he put down his type and hurriedly dried
his hands on a discarded proof.
“I think I’ll let you do that governor business to-night, Dick,” the
editor said. “It’s not every day we have a governor in town, and people
will want to read something about him. You might have a little talk
with him; get him to say something nice about Russellville. You’ll have
all the week to write your story, and I think you can do it justice.”
“Very well, sir; I’ll do the best I can with it,” Dick answered, and
went back to his type.
“That governor business!” It was a vague order, but Dick understood
it, and it brought a flush to his temples. It meant that that night
he was to be a reporter for the paper, instead of only a drudge in
the office. He was proud of the commission, and yet a little afraid
of it. He had often done little reporting jobs for the paper before,
attending unimportant meetings and writing a few lines about them which
had actually appeared in print. Occasionally he had ventured into a bit
of descriptive writing, with some success. But that governor business!
That was more than he would have believed the editor would trust him
with.
The editor knew what he was doing, though. Dick had a reasonably good
education, having gone through the village school, and he knew how to
get a fact and write it in good plain English without any nonsense.
He was a manly looking fellow, too, five feet nine; and his cheery,
handsome face and bright gray eyes opened many a door for him where an
older man might have been repulsed.
“What is the governor business you’re going to do?” the foreman asked
presently, after hearing the editor go out and shut the front door.
“Oh, haven’t you heard of it? I thought everybody in Russellville knew
about it,” Dick replied. “Of course you know that Mrs. Thornton is a
sister of Governor Wright, the governor of the State, and that she is
very sick. She is much worse to-day, and they have telegraphed for the
governor to come on, and he is expected here about nine o’clock this
evening.”
Dick had more things to think of now, as he went on distributing his
type without throwing italic words into the quad box as some printers
do when excited. Seeing the governor would interfere with his business
at home, and that must be postponed. And going up to a real governor
and interviewing him, he regarded as a very serious matter. But he
knew the Thorntons well, and they would make a way for him to reach
the governor, when he was at leisure. There was one dark spot, though,
in this bright prospect. He could not help thinking that in another
week he might be rolling logs in a saw-mill instead of interviewing
governors for a very respectable weekly newspaper.
At nine o’clock that evening Dick started out for the Thorntons’ house,
revolving in his mind a dozen questions that he intended to ask the
governor if he got the chance. The governor was to drive over; for
although Russellville is less than an hour’s ride from New York it is
several miles from the nearest railway. It is a slow, old-fashioned
town and its Record is a slow, old-fashioned newspaper; but that was in
Dick’s favor, for none but a very old-fashioned paper could have sent
its office boy to interview the governor of the State.
As he went down the quiet street, Dick saw that something unusual was
going on. People were gathered in little groups talking; and almost a
crowd, for Russellville, stood in front of the drugstore.
“What is it?” he asked. “What is the matter?”
“The governor,” was the answer, “has been killed!”
“No, not killed,” said another, “but very badly injured. The horses
ran away and he was thrown out. They have taken him to his sister’s,
and three doctors are trying to bring him back to life. He has been
unconscious ever since the accident.”
For a moment Dick was dazed; and then there came upon him that feeling
of responsibility that comes even to an old reporter when an important
piece of news lies before him.
To verify the report--he was sure that that was what he ought to do
first, for such things are often exaggerated. He hurried on to the
Thornton house and found a crowd in front. While he waited one of the
doctors came out; and Dick, knowing him, stepped into the carriage with
him. Yes, the rumor was only too true. The horses had taken fright,
Governor Wright had been thrown out; he had been carried unconscious to
his sister’s house, and the physicians had found a bad fracture of the
left thigh. There were injuries to the head, too, but it was impossible
to say yet how serious. The doctor was hurrying after splints and
bandages and would return to the house. Dick could go back with him, he
said, and see the governor’s secretary, who was in the party.
It was while he rode in the carriage with the doctor that an idea came
to Dick which changed his whole subsequent life. Here was news, he was
sure of it; a serious accident to the governor of a great State was
news that even the big city papers would print, and if they would print
it they would pay for it. He might make three dollars, a whole week’s
wages, if he could get the news to one of the morning newspapers. No
telegraph office in Russellville was open at that hour, but there was
a train for the city at eleven o’clock, if he could get a friend to
drive him over to the station.
With this idea in his head Dick worked like a Trojan. To see the
governor was out of the question, but he saw the secretary and talked
with him. Then he saw the doctors and got a brief written statement
from one of them. The driver had a story to tell, and Dick made full
notes of it all. In an hour he felt sure that he had everything at his
fingers’ ends.
“But will this be fair?” he asked himself as he went down the street to
meet the friend who was to drive him to the railway. “I was sent out to
report the governor’s visit for The Russellville Record, and will it be
fair for me to write an account of the accident for some other paper?”
It was a very proper question for him to ask, and fortunately his
editor was on hand to answer it. He was walking up the street that Dick
was walking down.
“It’s a very bad accident, sir,” Dick hurriedly said; “the governor’s
thigh is broken and his head is injured. Would it make any difference
to you, Mr. Davis, if I should take an account of it to one of the New
York papers?”
“Not the least in the world!” the editor replied, smiling; “it’s a good
idea. Go ahead, my boy, and they’ll pay you for it.”
At twelve o’clock, midnight, Dick was in New York city, having stopped
a moment at home to explain the situation; and ten minutes later he
was in front of The Daily Transport office. He had passed the building
often before, but never at midnight; and when he saw the row of bright
lights all across the third and fourth stories, and the men at work in
the brilliant counting-room below (enough men, it seemed to him, to
write and print the paper themselves), he began to feel a little timid
about going in.
“Pshaw!” he said to himself after hesitating a moment outside; “I have
something to sell that I’m sure the paper wants to buy. Anyhow, I don’t
believe they’ll eat me in there.”
When he inquired for the editor at one of the counting-room windows,
the nearest clerk raised his head from his work long enough to nod
toward the stairway, and to say:--
“Third story!”
This was surprise number one for Dick. Here was a great New York office
without an elevator, and with long dark stairs to climb! It was his
favorite paper, too; the best of them all, as he thought, and he was
rather disappointed. But he climbed the stairs, one long flight and two
shorter ones, and went through an open doorway into a blaze of light.
It was an immense room that he found himself in, with long rows of
desks and chairs and electric lights innumerable, and larger desks at
the farther end by the front windows. A small space about the entrance
door was enclosed with a railing. Thirty or forty men sat at the desks;
a few writing, some reading newspapers, others grouped together and
talking in low tones. Everything was as calm as a May morning.
This was surprise number two. The paper must go to press certainly in
an hour or so, yet all these men were as unconcerned as though they
were writing for a monthly magazine. And where were the messenger boys,
rushing excitedly in and out, bearing important dispatches from all
parts of the world? Not a messenger did he see. Why, there was more
excitement in The Russellville Record office on publication day.
An office boy stood in front of him inquiringly, and Dick said that he
had some news for the editor.
“Night city editor,” said the boy; “step this way.”
He led Dick through a long alley between two rows of desks to the front
of the room, and pointed to a chair at the side of the editor’s desk.
Dick sat down and felt reassured when he found that the night city
editor was a very young man, not more than four or five years older
than himself.
“We had an accident in our place--in Russellville--to-night,” he said
when the editor looked up; “Governor Wright was thrown out of his
carriage and was very seriously hurt. His thigh was broken and they do
not know yet how dangerous the injuries to his head may be.”
“And your name is?”--the editor asked.
“My name is Richard Sumner, sir,” Dick answered. “I am from The
Russellville Record.”
“Just tell me the circumstances, Mr. Sumner, as briefly as you can,”
said the editor.
Dick felt that he was blushing, for it was the first time he had ever
been called Mr. Sumner. But he had the story well in mind, and told it
as briefly and clearly as he could, with all the important points well
brought out.
Before the young editor had time to say anything, after Dick finished,
an elderly gentleman, who had been sitting at a neighboring desk,
apparently paying no attention to the talk, pushed back his chair and
stood up and began to open a most formidable battery upon the young
printer. He first wiped one pair of spectacles and put them on, then
wiped another pair and put them on over the others. Through both
pairs of glasses he looked searchingly into Dick’s face. But his own
gray-whiskered face was such an embodiment of good-nature that Dick was
not alarmed.
“Young man,” said the older editor, his glass guns still aimed straight
at Dick’s face, “can you write that story as well as you have just told
it?”
“I think so, sir,” Dick answered. “I wrote part of it while I was in
the cars.”
“Then give me what you have ready,” said the editor, “and sit right
down at that desk and finish it. Give all the particulars fully; we
have plenty of room for important news. But no slush, mind you; not a
line. Have you taken this to any other paper?”
“No, sir,” Dick replied.
“But there is a telegraph office in Russellville?”
“Yes, sir, there is,” Dick answered; “but it was closed at eight
o’clock, before the accident happened.”
“Then don’t go anywhere else,” said the editor. “Stay here with me till
I can show you a proof, and I will pay you extra for it. Now fire away;
you have an hour and twenty minutes to write. We go to press at 1.50.”
Dick sat down at a desk with a handful of manilla paper before him,
and spent a minute or two in thinking before he began to write. There
he was with important news, and only two of the forty men paid any
attention to him, or even looked at him. And he could not understand
why they would take news from a stranger so willingly; he had expected
to be questioned very closely, for how could they know that his news
was true? But there was no time to waste, and he fell to work.
It was not instinct that taught him to begin the article with a brief
statement of all the principal facts. He had learned that way by
reading the Transport carefully. Then he went on with an account of
Mrs. Thornton’s relationship to the governor, her illness and relapse,
the governor’s arrival in Russellville, the fright of the horses, the
accident, and the extent of the governor’s injuries. After these things
came an interview with the doctors and the private secretary and a copy
of the statement that one of the doctors had written for him. Last of
all was a talk with the driver, in which that well-frightened person
told in his own way how and why the horses ran away.
“Don’t hurry yourself,” the night city editor called over to Dick,
seeing how rapidly he was moving the pencil. “Plenty of time. You’ve
nearly forty minutes yet.”
When Dick looked up to answer, a cold chill ran down his spine. The
editor with the spectacles was at work on his early copy with a blue
pencil, marking out whole paragraphs, killing lines and parts of lines,
transposing sentences, inserting new words, making changes here, there,
and everywhere. He had never seen copy with so many blue lines.
“A nice job I’ve made of it,” he said to himself. “I guess they’ll not
want any more of my copy in the Transport office.” But the next minute
he saw that the young editor was doing precisely the same thing with
the copy he was reading, and that consoled him.
Long before 1.50 came, Dick’s copy had all been edited and sent up to
the printers. Both the editors seemed to have forgotten him, and he
was left to amuse himself with the loose newspapers and directories
and traveler’s guides that were scattered about. The older editor was
constantly going out of the room and coming back, and the younger was
busy with copy that was laid upon his desk every few minutes:
“There is later news for you,” said the editor with the glasses, as he
came in with a handful of proofs and handed Dick an open telegram.
The dispatch was dated “Russellville, 12.45, via Branchport, 1.20
A.M.”; and the date line made Dick open his eyes. “Governor
Wright still unconscious,” it said. “Slight fracture of skull.
Physicians give little hope of his recovery. Good night. Simmons.”
“Why!” Dick exclaimed; “how did you get that, sir?”
“Newspapers have long arms, Mr. Sumner,” the editor replied with a
smile; and the next minute he was busy with his proofs.
Dick understood now why the Transport’s editors had been so willing
to accept news from a stranger. They had treated his news exactly as
though they were sure of its truth, even to putting it in type, to be
ready if it proved genuine. But without confirmation they would not
have published it, except perhaps as a rumor. Then in some unknown way
they had managed to get one of their own men to Russellville, and his
telegram had removed all doubts and added later news. The skilful way
it was managed filled him with admiration.
“And they don’t care a cent whether I see a proof of my article or
not,” he said to himself. “In fact I don’t believe they will show me a
proof at all, for it’s not necessary. They’re just keeping me here so
that I won’t take the news to any of the other papers. They’re after a
‘beat,’ and I think they’ve got one.”
Rap-tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-atap-atap-atap, atap. It was a heavy
pounding somewhere overhead; and Dick knew what that meant, too. The
printers were “planing down a form”--leveling the type with a mallet
and smooth block of wood. That is one of the last operations before the
presses begin to move, and a sure sign that the paper will soon be out.
But the gray-bearded editor worked away at his proofs, and still Dick
was left to himself.
Presently there came up through the floor a noise that sounded like
suppressed shrieks, followed in a few seconds by a rumble and jar that
shook the building. The belts had taken hold, and the presses were at
work, three stories below, far under the sidewalk.
At 2.10 A.M., a boy rushed in with an armful of fresh
papers, and handed one to each of the fifteen or twenty men who still
remained in the room. Dick had no need even to open the paper to see
his article, for there it was in the place of honor, the first column
of the first page, with a big head over it, and the first third of a
column double-leaded to make it look larger. He was almost frightened
when he turned the paper over and found that he had written a column
and a quarter.
“That is a good thing of yours, Mr. Sumner,” the spectacled editor
said; and Dick felt himself growing red when fifteen or twenty pairs of
eyes were turned toward him. “You evidently know a piece of news when
you see it, and you have handled the subject well. Let me have your
name and address, please; there may be more news in Russellville.”
While Dick was writing his address on a piece of paper the other
morning papers were brought in by a boy and laid upon the spectacled
editor’s desk. He picked out the three or four leading ones and hastily
looked them over.
“We’ve done them!” he exclaimed; and he turned about and beamed smiles
over everybody present. “No one else has a word about Governor Wright’s
accident. Your first article in the Transport is a straight out-and-out
beat, Mr. Sumner.”
He turned to his desk again and hastily wrote a few words with his blue
pencil.
“Hand this to the cashier on your way out,” he said, giving Dick a
small slip of paper; “and come to us when you have more news. Good
night, Mr. Sumner.”
Pride, excitement, fatigue were all helping to make Dick feel that the
night’s work was not quite real. He had stepped upon the magic carpet
and it had carried him to enchanted regions far away from Russellville
and the Record office. On the first landing he stopped under the light
and read what the spectacled editor had written upon the slip of
paper:--
CASHIER DAILY TRANSPORT,--
Please pay the bearer twenty-five dollars for important
exclusive information. JOHN B. GOODE, _Night Editor_.