THE PRINTER BOY BECOMES A REPORTER.
“Here, Dick! Wash the small rollers and be quick about it.”
“Well, this is a funny old world,” Dick said to himself. “Last night
some of the big editors were calling me Mr. Sumner and telling me I’d
written a good article, and this morning I’m only ‘Here, Dick!’ again.”
But he picked up the black sponge and began the inky work as cheerfully
as a boy could who had been up all night and lived for two or three
hours in a dream.
He had taken an early train from the city, and by walking from the
railway had reached home in time for a bite of breakfast before he
opened the office as usual. Not a word did he say to any of his
fellow-printers about what he had done; but a copy of The Daily
Transport was carefully folded up in his coat pocket. He thought more
of that one than any of the other copies that he had bought at the news
stands, because it was the one that had been given him in the office.
It was a sort of sacred relic to him, important enough to be framed.
Somehow the saw-mill project seemed miles away now. There was little
chance of such a piece of news happening in his way again, but it
did not seem possible that he could be taken away from the types and
presses, after such an experience.
“Here, Dick!”
It amused him more now than ever, the constant calling of “Here, Dick!”
But this call came from the editor’s room, and he hurriedly washed the
worst of the black from his hands.
“I have just been reading your article in The Daily Transport, Dick,”
the editor said. “You gave them the facts very correctly, and they must
have turned them over to a good man to write the story, for he has done
it capitally. Do you know who it was?”
“I wrote the article myself, sir,” Dick answered modestly.
“What!” the editor exclaimed; “you wrote the article! Well, that’s
strange. You know I used to have something to do with the Transport
myself, and of course I know that when a stranger goes in with
important news they have him tell it to one of the reporters, and the
reporter writes the article. Tell me how it happened that they let you
write it.”
Dick gave a brief account of all his experiences in the Transport
office, not forgetting his first statement to the night city editor
that was overheard by the night editor, the cutting and changing of his
copy, and the compliment that the night editor paid him.
“Well, I am glad to hear that,” Mr. Davis said when he had heard the
whole story. “I am really glad to hear that, Dick. You did them a
first-rate piece of work, and you have evidently established yourself
in the good opinion of the night editor. You don’t know how much that
means, but I do. I know Dr. Goode, the night editor, very well. Almost
every newspaper man around New York knows him and loves him, for he is
one of the dearest old men in the world. He is always on the lookout
for bright young men who can be turned into good reporters; and if I
am not much mistaken he has you in his eye and you will hear from him
again.”
“But I had only given the young editor a very brief account of the
accident when Dr. Goode took me in charge, sir,” Dick interrupted.
“That’s it exactly,” Mr. Davis continued; “and Dr. Goode overheard you,
and he saw in a minute that you had the story properly laid out in your
mind and knew how to handle it. That was why he took you out of the
young editor’s hands and looked after you himself. You see the young
man, the night city editor, has charge of the city news at night, but
Dr. Goode, the night editor, has charge of the whole paper at night,
under the managing editor. Your plain, straightforward way of writing
evidently pleased him, and I am afraid that before the year is up I
shall lose one of the best office boys I ever had.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dick, blushing furiously. “You are very kind to
say so; but I don’t think there is any danger of that.”
There was great danger of it, however, and steps to bring it about were
in progress at that very moment.
“Don’t take too much credit to yourself, though, Dick,” Mr. Davis
went on with a smile. “I don’t want to see you spoiled at the start.
Remember that circumstances had more to do with it than you had. If
Russellville were not such a little out-of-the-way place, there would
be some newspaper correspondent here, and then you would have had no
chance at all. If Dr. Goode had not accidentally overheard you telling
the story, he could not have taken a fancy to your way of telling it.
But that is the way things always go; we are creatures of accident.
The bright man takes advantage of the accidents and turns them to good
account, and that is exactly what you did.”
Dick might not have set type as complacently that morning if he had
known all that the night editor did before he went home. The young
printer was hardly out of the Transport office before Dr. Goode took up
a small slip of paper and wrote a brief note to the city editor with
his ever-present blue pencil.
“Dear John,” he said in the note, “the young man who did the Governor
Wright beat for us this morning is Richard Sumner, of Russellville.
“He has a nose for news and he writes good English.
“You might make a reporter of him, if you have a vacancy.
“Yours, J. B. G.”
When the city editor reached his desk at ten o’clock in the morning he
found this note among a dozen others, and, after reading it, he laid it
under a paper weight till the rush of morning work was over. Then he
took it up again and wrote a very short letter to “Mr. Richard Sumner,
Russellville,” and sent it to the mail box. The fewer letters a man
gets the longer he takes to answer them; and the city editor of the
Transport gets so many that he answers each one on the instant.
Dick was in blissful ignorance of all this; and when he was sent after
the evening mail, about five o’clock, it gave him a start to find a
letter addressed to himself, with The Daily Transport printed across
the envelope in big type.
“Dear Sir,” the letter read, “I should be glad to have you call and
see me at The Daily Transport office any day before six o’clock
P.M.
“Truly yours, J. H. Brown, _City Editor_.”
When Dick showed this note to the editor of the Record, that gentleman
merely gave an “I-told-you-so” smile and said: “Those fellows don’t
waste much time, do they?” But when he read it at home before supper to
his mother and Florrie, it threw the household into confusion.
“O Dick!” his mother exclaimed; and Dick noticed that she turned her
head away, “they want you to write more for them, I know they do; and
to think that I almost wanted you to leave the business and work in a
saw-mill! Of course they would send for you, you write so well; and
your being a printer is a great help, for you could help to print the
paper.”
“I don’t believe that’s what it is about,” said Florrie. Happy as she
was over Dick’s success, she could not help teasing him a little. “I
think Dick has made some bad mistake in his article, and they want him
to come and explain it.”
But while she spoke Florrie stood behind his chair stroking his head;
and more than one Russellville boy would have been glad to sit in
Dick’s chair at that moment.
“You must not have such an idea, mother,” Dick answered. “I have great
hopes that they will give me something to do, from what Mr. Davis told
me to-day. But it would be something very small, at the best. It was
not my writing they cared for, but the news I took them. I can write
a plain statement well enough, but what is that compared with the way
that most of those Transport men can write? Even if they give me a
chance, I may not be able to please them.”
It was fortunate for Dick that he was as honest with the city editor
a few days later as he was with his mother. Men go to see the city
editor every day who try to pass themselves for something they are
not, and the editor sees through their little deception in a minute
and shakes them off. But Dick told everything about himself frankly.
Instead of trying to magnify himself he said that he was working in a
printing-office for three dollars a week; that he was a little past
eighteen years old, and had been through the Russellville public school.
“I’m afraid I am not as good a speller as I ought to be, sir,” he added
doubtfully.
The editor smiled.
“That doesn’t make the least difference,” he said. “One of the best
reporters I ever had spelled door d-o-a-r. If a reporter can get the
news, the printers will see to his spelling.”
They talked for ten or fifteen minutes, and the editor liked Dick’s
honest, manly way.
“Well,” said he in conclusion, “we will take you on trial as a
reporter. You can begin to-morrow morning, if you like, and report to
me at ten o’clock. The salary will be fifteen dollars a week.”
The salary will be fifteen dollars a week. The salary will be fifteen
dollars a week. Dick kept saying it over and over to himself as he went
down the stairs. Perhaps there was some mistake about it. No, that was
what the editor said, fifteen dollars a week. He was rather alarmed
at it. For such a salary they would expect more of him than he was
capable of. Fif-teen dollars a w-e-e-k! Fifteen times fifty-two is
780; seven hundred and eighty dollars a year!
When Dick reported for duty the next morning he felt that he was
beginning a new life. Mr. Davis had released him immediately from the
Record office, and he was no longer a printer’s boy. He had a vague
idea that he would be sent out to a good street corner to pick up some
of the things that are constantly occurring in New York. Maybe he would
happen upon a fire, or it might be the catching of a pickpocket, or
somebody run over.
But his first morning’s experience was very different from this. After
reporting to the city editor he was told to sit down and wait; and he
sat in one of the chairs from ten o’clock till half-past two without
anybody paying the slightest attention to him. Other men came in and
got their orders and went out again, but Dick seemed to be entirely
forgotten.
“I wonder whether Mr. Brown thinks I’m too young, now he’s had a second
look at me,” he said to himself. “It’s very strange. Here they’re
paying me two dollars and a half a day, and they don’t give me anything
to do.”
It was a great relief to him when one of the reporters, a man whom he
remembered seeing in the office on the night of his first visit, came
up and spoke to him. Dick remembered him particularly because he was
the handsomest man in the office and seemed to have a pleasant word
for everybody. He was very dark, with a silky black mustache, and was
extremely well dressed.
“Well, my boy,” said this handsome reporter, “you’re going to be a
newspaper man, are you?”
“I hope so, sir,” Dick answered. “But I’ve not done much so far. They
haven’t given me anything to do yet to-day.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that!” the man laughed. “I suppose you are
on salary, so you’ll soon have enough to do. You’ll only get little
jobs at first, till they see what you can do. Thought of going out to
try and pick up some news? Oh, you couldn’t do that. We very seldom
pick up news. You see that book on the city editor’s desk? That is what
we call the assignment book. The city editor knows everything that
should happen in the city to-day, all the routine things, and he makes
a list of them in his book. Then he assigns one man to attend to each
thing. There’s a conference in the mayor’s office at three o’clock, and
he wants Jack Randall to attend to it (I’m Jack Randall); so he writes
my name opposite the entry, and that’s my business for the afternoon. I
must be off. If you get stuck on anything, come to me and I’ll help you
out. Ta-ta.” Handsome Jack Randall tapped Dick lightly on the shoulder
and was off, little thinking how much pleasanter he had made the day
for the new reporter.
By three o’clock Dick began to feel the gnawings of hunger; but his
new friend Randall was gone, and he had no one to ask what was the
reporters’ lunch hour. After some hesitation he stepped up to the city
editor and asked:--
“Could I go out for a few minutes to get something to eat, sir?”
Mr. Brown leaned far back in his armchair and looked Dick pleasantly in
the face, in a very reassuring manner.
“Go out just whenever you like, Mr. Sumner,” he answered, “and eat all
you want. You don’t need to ask permission. And when you come back make
yourself as comfortable as you can. We don’t have any slave rules in
the Transport office.”
It was new to Dick to feel at liberty to go in and out as he liked. One
of the cheap restaurants in the neighborhood of Printing House Square
supplied the food he needed, and he was soon back in his chair. He saw
that the city editor had a pile of fresh newspapers on his desk, and
was busy reading them. They were the early editions of the afternoon
papers.
“Mr. Sumner!” said the editor, looking toward Dick; and Dick hastened
to him. Here was work evidently for him to do, and he was anxious to
make a beginning. The editor had a small clipping in his hand, just cut
from one of the newspapers.
“Here is something for you to do this evening, Mr. Sumner,” the editor
said. “There is to be a meeting of the Stonecutters’ Protective Union,
in Germania Hall, that you can attend. They seldom do anything but make
speeches, and the whole thing probably will not be worth more than
four or five lines. But you must always be on the lookout for anything
unusual, of course, that might make it of more importance. Hand your
copy to the night city editor; and have it in as early as you can,
please.”
“Yes, sir,” Dick answered as he took the printed slip the editor handed
him. He was a little disappointed, but of course he did not show it.
Mr. Randall had told him that he would get only small jobs at first;
but to write four or five lines for a day’s work seemed to him rather
discouraging.
“Well, my boy,” one of the older reporters said to him as he resumed
his seat, “you’ve got your first assignment, have you? Let me see; oh,
the stonecutters’ union;” and the man laughed; “you’ll get plenty of
those little jobs till they find out what you can do. It’s by doing
these little things well that you’ll gradually work into better ones.”
“I suppose a man must begin at the beginning, sir,” Dick replied; and
then wondered at what he had said, for he had never called himself a
man before. But he sat down and began to study his slip carefully. At
eight o’clock, so the slip said, the meeting was to be held; and there
would be several addresses by prominent speakers. He laid it out in
his mind just how his few lines should be worded. He was glad to think
that it would take some little skill, at any rate, to condense a report
of a meeting into four or five lines.
It was not six o’clock yet when Dick left the office, and he had
plenty of time for a leisurely walk up the Bowery. He had often seen
the Bowery before, but never had it seemed so bright and busy to him.
Instead of being merely a visitor now he had business there, business
for a great newspaper, and he was actually a reporter going after
information.
The meeting proved to be very different from what Dick expected. The
big hall was crowded, and the two factions in the union could not
agree. One of the speakers was mobbed and injured, several shots were
fired, the police rushed in with their clubs, and chairs were freely
used as missiles. It was anything but a routine meeting.
“Why!” Dick said to himself as he hurried back to the office after
eleven o’clock, “in Russellville we’d half-fill the paper with such a
thing. Even in New York it must be worth more than four or five lines.
I think the city editor would want me to write a little more than
that--say fifteen or twenty lines, as several people were hurt.”
The whole appearance of the office was changed when he reached it.
The day staff of editors had gone home and the night staff had taken
their places, and the big room was brilliant and hot. Nobody paid any
attention to him, for every one was busy. The night city editor’s only
information about Dick’s work was in the single line in the assignment
book:
“Meeting of Stonecutters, Germania Hall--Sumner.”
Dick sat down at his desk and wrote on the manilla office paper:--
“At the meeting of the Stonecutter’s Protective Union, held in Germania
Hall last evening, the two factions in the society came to blows, and
several persons were seriously injured, besides one man being shot. The
Hon. George R. Heard, member of Assembly, made an address; and some of
the members, taking exception to his remarks, attacked him with chairs
and table legs, and he was so badly hurt that an ambulance had to be
called to take him to Bellevue Hospital. The police rushed in with
drawn clubs, and several shots were fired. One man was hit by a bullet,
but his name could not be ascertained. The hall, which was crowded, was
cleared by the police.”
“There!” Dick said to himself after he had read the page a dozen times
and made some changes each time; “I think that tells the story. If only
I have not made it too long. Jack Randall would tell me if he were
here, but he is out. I don’t think this will be too much about it.”
He walked over to the night city editor’s desk and handed in his page
of copy, as he saw the other reporters do.
“A meeting of stonecutters, sir,” he said.
“Very well,” the night city editor replied, scarcely looking up. But he
took his blue pencil and checked Dick’s name in the assignment list and
laid the page of copy on top of a heap of such pages. It must take its
turn, and it might not come under his eye for an hour yet. Dick went to
his seat and took up a newspaper, but he waited anxiously to learn the
fate of his first day’s work as a reporter.
It was nearly midnight when Dick’s copy was picked up by the editor,
and he was looking at the moment in another direction.
“Hello here!” he heard the editor exclaim. “What’s this? what’s this?
Assemblyman Heard injured and taken to Bellevue Hospital; another man
shot! Why, this was a riot; we must have a column of this! Who was such
a-- Oh, this is Sumner, a new man. Here, Mr. Sumner, please.”
Dick was dazed as he stepped up to the editor’s desk. It was plain that
he had made a terrible blunder.
“I am afraid you do not appreciate the value of news, Mr. Sumner,”
the editor said. “A stonecutters’ meeting is worth only a few lines,
but a riot at such a meeting is a very different thing. We must have
a much better account of this. You sit down and tell all the facts
you have to Mr. Herrick here. Mr. Herrick, you take Sumner’s facts and
write the story. Mr. Black, call up Bellevue Hospital on the telephone,
and inquire how badly Assemblyman Heard has been hurt. Get Police
Headquarters, too, and ask for all particulars. We must know something
about the man who was shot. Mr. Banks, you will find a biography of
Assemblyman Heard in the library; write me a brief account of his life,
please,--about two sticks. We must have this ready in half an hour,
gentlemen, if possible.”
Three men set to work to do over again the report that Dick had made a
failure with! He was ready to sink through the floor, but he sat down
and gave Mr. Herrick as complete an account of the meeting as he could.
It was easy to see now that the news was of importance, and he wondered
at himself for not seeing it before. The order for four or five lines
had misled him.
Before one o’clock the new report was ready, nearly a column of it,
the different parts of it neatly joined together by Mr. Herrick. Oh,
how skilfully that man handled the matter, Dick thought, and how well
he knew just where to bring in Mr. Black’s part of the story and Mr.
Banks’ biography.
“A nice thing to have to tell mother and Florrie,” Dick said to himself
as he went sadly down the stairs; “to make such a break as that, and
have my work done over again. I’m afraid I haven’t got the brains to
work for a big city paper, that’s about the amount of it. Anyhow I
don’t suppose they’ll want me any longer now that they see what I am.
It will seem hard to go back to washing rollers and sweeping out the
office after thinking myself a reporter; but it’s all my own stupidity.”
Turning one of the sharp corners at a landing, Dick almost ran into
Dr. Goode, who had been out eating his midnight lunch. The doctor wore
only one pair of glasses now, and he had to look closely to see who was
before him.
“Oh, it’s you, Sumner, is it?” he asked as he recognized the new
reporter. “I see you had a little misfortune with your assignment
to-night. But never mind, my boy;” and he laid his hand kindly on
Dick’s shoulder. “Such things happen to new men sometimes; we rather
expect them. It’s not the first mistake we mind, but having the same
mistake made over and over. Keep your spirits up, and you’ll soon be
doing some good work for us.”