HOW DICK SPURNED A BRIBE.
The opportunity to write this “special” was a great relief to Dick;
for, notwithstanding his success in a professional way, he found it
hard to make both ends meet. The writing of one amounted to little, but
he knew that one would open the way for more.
There were scores of little expenses that he had not counted upon, and
the support of the family devolved mainly upon him. He was proud of
this, even though it did take his last cent every week. Then there was
the twenty-five dollars he owed Randall, which he felt must be paid off
soon; and he was in need of newer and better clothes. The Russellville
clothes did very well while he was doing small work in the office, for
the men he met on these little jobs were dressed no better than he; but
in the class of work he was doing now it was different.
He was constantly meeting the best reporters in New York, men who made
a great deal of money, and who wore the best clothes they could buy,
and carried fine watches, and often wore expensive diamonds. Dick cared
very little for the diamonds and jewelry, but he wanted to present as
good an appearance as his associates. Occasional specials would help
him wonderfully in this and a hundred other things, for they paid ten
dollars a column; and he knew that if he had any sort of success with
them they would almost double his pay.
He did not know, of course, that the chance to write specials was
an arrangement that had been made expressly to give him more money,
growing out of a conversation between Dr. Goode and the city editor.
“Sumner’s work is always good,” the night editor had said. “I never
feel any anxiety about an assignment when it is in his hands. You ought
to increase his salary, for he is doing some of his best work in the
office.”
“Yes, he is,” the city editor had replied. “He has made a remarkable
record so far. I don’t know of any young man who has taken hold as he
has. It seems to be intuitive with him to know a piece of news when he
sees it, and there is no limit to his energy. The best of him is that
although he must know he is doing unusually good work, it doesn’t spoil
him. He is just as ready to go out on a small affair as a big one. But
you know I make it a rule not to raise a new man’s salary in the first
six months. However, I can make it up to him by giving him specials to
write and in other ways, to give him more money. He must have more, of
course. He doesn’t seem to think of anything but his work; no poker
games on his mind, no billiards, no little club rooms, no rum, nothing
but solid hard work.”
“Such men must be encouraged,” the doctor laughed; “for they’re not
plenty.”
Ignorant of all this, Dick took his few spare hours to write his first
special, sitting up several times long after Darling reached home.
“It’s a jolly place to write, here in the dining-room,” he said one
night when Darling came in at half-past two; “after the folks are in
bed. The light is so good, too. Somehow I never could take any pleasure
in reading or writing at night when I lived in a furnished room,
because the gas was always so dim.”
“Didn’t any of the fellows tell you how to manage that?” Darling
laughed. “Of course you never could get a fair light in a furnished
room, because the landladies plug up the tips of the burners. That lets
only a little gas through, and saves bills, you know. You should have
bought a burner of your own and a pair of nippers, and unscrewed the
landlady’s burner when you wanted to read or write, and put your own
on. That’s the way all the boys do.”
“Maybe you do that in your room here,” Dick suggested with a twinkle in
his eye.
“I don’t have to, Dick,” Darling replied. “There are no mean tricks
about that mother of yours--nor your sister either,” he added, and then
blushed a little because Dick smiled.
There was no doubt of Dick’s ability to write a good special after
his first one appeared. It was not merely a correct account of his
experiences in looking for the chief of police and Sterling’s body; all
the details were truthfully given, but they were given in such a way as
to bring out every funny point to the best advantage. It was a comical
article from beginning to end, and Dick was set down for a humorist as
well as an accurate reporter of facts. There was some glory in this,
and some profit, too; for thereafter most of the subjects that might be
turned into humorous specials were handed over to Dick.
“I want you to run up to Saratoga,” the city editor said to him one day
after he had been long enough in the flat to pay a second month’s rent.
“You can go up to-night, do the work to-morrow, and come back to-morrow
night. I have had several reports about unfair dealings among the
bookmakers, and I want you to go out to the race track and investigate
for yourself. Make full inquiries; and after you have all your facts
go to Hyer, the leading bookmaker, tell him just what reports we have
heard, and ask him what he has to say about it.”
Dick had never ridden before in such a train as carried him to
Saratoga that night. It was one of the famous “Saratoga Specials,” made
up of a dozen parlor cars and drawn by two powerful engines. Leaving
New York at six in the evening it set him down in Saratoga before
midnight, and he slept in a gorgeous room in the Grand Union Hotel,
with music playing on the balcony and colored lights flashing across
the fountain in the courtyard.
It seemed to him next day as if half of New York had migrated to
Saratoga. He knew a great many people in the city, and almost every
other man he met he was sure he had seen before. Many of them he
knew, and some of these were of great assistance to him in making his
investigations. He did a hard day’s work, but after all it amounted to
nothing, for he could discover nothing irregular in the bookmakers’
methods.
He still had Mr. Hyer, the chief bookmaker, to see, and it was nearly
six o’clock in the evening before he found him in the lobby of the
hotel. None of your vulgar, horsey, gambler-looking men was Mr. Hyer,
with flashy clothes and showy jewelry; but a most respectable-appearing
man, so quiet in dress and manner that he might readily have been
mistaken for a clergyman. Dick stepped up and introduced himself and
asked for a few moments’ conversation.
“We had better go into this little writing room,” said Mr. Hyer, “where
we can talk without interruption;” and he led the way into a cozy
little room with a beautiful table in the centre and the softest of
chairs on each side.
There was no hesitation on Dick’s part now about talking to strangers.
It was an old story with him, and he felt as much at home with a man
he had never seen before as with an old friend. Certainly he had never
talked with a more polite or more agreeable man than Mr. Hyer.
Dick told the bookmaker what reports had reached the Transport office
about unfair methods on the race track, and Mr. Hyer listened with
great attention.
“It is very kind of you,” he said when Dick concluded his story,
“to come directly to me with these reports, instead of publishing
them first and investigating afterward. But that is quite like the
Transport’s way of doing; they have always treated me with the greatest
fairness. These reports have been circulated by enemies of mine who
seek to do me harm, and I can show you in a few words that they are
utterly unfounded.”
He went on in the smoothest manner to give Dick a detailed account
of his methods of doing business, and made everything appear as fair
and honorable as a transaction in real estate. He was very earnest
about it, too; for the publication of even a hint of unfairness in his
dealings would have done him immense damage and cost him thousands of
dollars.
“I think I have made everything clear to you,” he said in conclusion.
“You see for yourself that there can be no possible foundation for
these libelous attacks. And now,” he went on, his hand moving down
toward his trowsers pocket, “you have been at a good deal of trouble
and expense to come up here and make this investigation. Besides, you
have dealt fairly with me in coming directly to me, and I like to do
well by those who do well by me. Just slip this into your pocket.”
Mr. Hyer’s hand was on the table close by Dick’s when he finished
speaking, and “this” was a great roll of greenbacks that he tried to
thrust under Dick’s palm. It was a roll that a man could hardly close
his fingers around.
“Oh, no, sir!” Dick exclaimed, hastily drawing back his hand. The hot
blood mounted to his face, and he would have made some forcible remarks
if Mr. Hyer had not been so extremely polite and gentlemanly. “No, sir.
It is the Transport that pays the expense and pays me for my trouble.”
“Yes, of course; I understand that,” Mr. Hyer replied; “but this is
altogether outside of business matters. You have done me a kindness,
and I merely want to return a favor. You need have no hesitation in
accepting this trifling gift. Of course it will not influence you in
the least in what you write.”
The gentlemanly, smooth-tongued gambler still held the roll of notes
within easy reach.
Dick was on the point of flaring up and exclaiming, “Do you take me for
a thief, sir?” but how could he do it with such a gentle, suave man as
Mr. Hyer? Perhaps it was really meant only as a kindness, without any
intention to bribe him. Still he could not trust himself to say much.
“It is impossible!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, well, don’t let me annoy you with urging it upon you,” said Hyer,
drawing back his hand. “I thought a little money might be useful
to you; but no matter. At any rate, let us crack a bottle of wine
together. Do you prefer Mumm or Heidseick?”
“I do not drink wine, thank you,” Dick replied. “And I see it is nearly
seven o’clock, so I shall barely have time to eat dinner and catch the
evening train.”
He pushed back his chair and took a step toward the open door, and the
gambler followed.
“You see, Mr. Sumner,” he said--and he repeated some of his former
arguments--“I am sure that a fair-minded man like yourself will see
that my business is conducted on an entirely honorable basis.”
They were just within the door of the small room, and the great lobby
of the hotel, into which the door opened, was crowded with guests
recently returned from the races. Mr. Hyer had his left hand upon
Dick’s right sleeve, as though to emphasize his words, and his right
hand still held the fat roll of notes.
“So good-night, Mr. Sumner.”
While the gambler was uttering the words Dick felt a pressure upon his
vest pocket, and instinctively clapped his hand upon the spot. There
was the roll of notes stuck endwise into his pocket, and Mr. Hyer had
disappeared in the crowd.
It was plain enough what that meant. Hyer had forced the money upon
him, against his will, in the hope of influencing his report.
For a second or two Dick was dazed, and the righteous anger showed in
every feature of his face. He looked anxiously in every direction, but
the gambler had vanished utterly.
“Mr. Hyer!” he called. Of course there was no answer; but several
gentlemen idling near by looked at Dick in surprise to see any one in
such an excited state in that abode of luxury and pleasure.
Dick took the roll of notes from his pocket and held it in his hand. To
throw it upon the table and leave it there was his first impulse; but a
second’s consideration showed him that that would be foolish. Some one
would of course pick it up, and he would have no proof that he had not
kept it.
“If only there was some one with me!” he said to himself. But there was
no one, and he must make his own way out of the difficulty. He stepped
back into the little room and sat down in his old chair, still holding
the roll in his hand, for he would not have it in his pocket. Never had
a roll of money looked so utterly detestable to him before; it was an
unclean thing, and he loathed it.
For a moment he sat there bending over the table, torn with anger and
doubt; not doubt whether he should keep the money, but how he should
rid himself of it. It would not have been Dick Sumner, however, to
remain in such a condition long.
“Of course!” he exclaimed, straightening up in his chair, “it is plain
enough what I must do; but I declare I was so mad for a minute that I
didn’t know what I was about. I must go to some respectable person and
tell him the whole story, and put the money in his hands to be returned
to that smooth-tongued fellow. Mr. Clair is my man--Mr. Clair, the
proprietor of the hotel. It’s fortunate I met him this morning and had
a talk with him.”
Dick made his way across the crowded lobby to Mr. Clair’s office, still
carrying the roll in his hand and holding his hand far out from his
body; he would not have the money near him. The door was partly open
and he stepped inside.
“Mr. Clair, can I speak with you a moment?” he asked.
“Certainly. Come in and take a chair. Why, what is wrong? You look
ill, Mr. Sumner;” and he arose from his chair and helped Dick into a
comfortable seat.
“No, sir; I am quite well,” Dick answered. “But I am afraid that I am
rather excited. Will you do me the favor to take this roll of money
and count it, Mr. Clair?” And he held out his hand and the great hotel
proprietor took the money. Dick felt better the moment it was out of
his hands.
“Ten, twenty, thirty, forty”--Mr. Clair said, unrolling the money
and counting it; “two hundred and thirty, two hundred and forty, two
hundred and fifty. Just two hundred and fifty dollars here, Mr. Sumner.
You must have picked a winner at the races this afternoon, I think.”
“No, sir!” Dick exclaimed. “That money was stuffed into my pocket
against my will by Mr. Hyer, the bookmaker. It will be a great favor
to me if you will seal it up and see that it is returned to him, for I
cannot handle it again.”
Then in reply to Mr. Clair’s inquiring looks he went on and told the
whole story; what his business was with Mr. Hyer, and how he had
refused the money over and over, and how Mr. Hyer had at length forced
it into his pocket and disappeared in the crowd.
“I don’t think I ever had anything to hurt me quite as much, Mr.
Clair,” he said in concluding. “To think the man should take me for a
thief! That he could imagine I would go back to the office, and home
to my mother and sister, with a roll of stolen money in my pocket!
Worse than stolen! Why, I might better put my hand in your money drawer
than take it in such a way as--as”--
The recital of the story brought the hot blood to Dick’s head again.
Finding himself unable to finish the sentence, he turned away his head.
“Never mind, my boy.” Mr. Clair got up and shut the door, and laid
his hand kindly on Dick’s shoulder. “Don’t take it too hard. You must
make allowances for the man you were dealing with. Perhaps he has met
reporters who were willing to listen to such arguments. Indeed, I have
met some myself who would not have been a bit alarmed at finding two
hundred and fifty dollars in their pockets. But not from the great New
York papers,” he added, noticing Dick’s look of surprise. “No, I must
say that for them. It is only with the small fry.”
“You give me more confidence in human nature, at any rate,” Mr. Clair
went on. “I have to deal with thousands and tens of thousands of people
here, and my experience often leads me to doubt whether there is a
single honest man in the world. But there is one, I’ll swear to it,
and I am glad to know him. I know you better than you think, for a
hotel keeper, like a reporter, must learn to read a man’s heart by the
outward signs. Some time you may be in need of a friend, my boy; when
that day comes, call on Henry Clair. Come in and eat dinner with me.”
On the way home in the train that night Dick concluded that he would
say nothing in the office about the attempt to bribe him. There was
nothing in the episode that he could reproach himself with, and yet the
mere offer of a bribe to him seemed to him to involve some disgrace.
There must have been something in his manner, he was afraid, that led
the gambler to believe that he could be bought; and the thought worried
him. He had nothing to write; before he saw Mr. Hyer he had made up his
mind that no unfairness could be proved, however strong the suspicion
might be. The gambler’s effort at bribery convinced him that something
was wrong, and he would have been delighted to make an exposure; but he
had no facts to go upon.
Some unimportant matter was given him to investigate in the morning,
and when he returned to the office about the middle of the afternoon
Dick was startled by a word from the city editor:--
“Mr. Harding has been inquiring for you, Sumner. I think he is
disengaged now, and you had better go into his room.”
Mr. Harding, the editor-in-chief! In his months in the office Dick
had not set foot in the real editor’s room, and had seen him only two
or three times. A few months before he would have thought nothing of
such a summons, for he was accustomed to talking with Mr. Davis, the
editor of The Russellville Record. But he had learned what a great man
the editor of a big New York paper is, at least in his own office; how
autocratic, how unapproachable, how weirdly, wonderfully imposing, a
summons from the editor-in-chief sets even the managing editor in a
flutter!
“Come in, Sumner,” was Mr. Harding’s greeting. He spoke very pleasantly
Dick thought, for so great a man; but his manner was quick and decided,
as though he had many reputations to make or mar before sunset. “You
have been up at Saratoga, have you?”
“Yes, sir,” Dick answered, “I went up about”--
“No matter! Never mind what about; Mr. Brown will attend to that. And
you had a peculiar experience up there, did you?”
Dick started. How could Mr. Harding have heard of his peculiar
experience, when he had not mentioned it to a soul in the office?
“Yes, sir,” he answered, “I had a very unpleasant experience.”
“Sit down here and tell me all about it, but briefly, briefly.” And as
the editor pointed to a chair Dick wondered how he could find time to
listen to so small a matter, with such an awful collection of letters
and manuscript and proofs piled before him. “Never mind the news part.
Who was it offered you the money?”
“Mr. Hyer, sir,” Dick replied; and in as few words as possible he
described the circumstances.
“H’m, Hyer! I thought so. Then the charges against him are true.
Bribery is always a confession of weakness, Mr. Sumner. I have a letter
here from my friend Clair that will interest you; you may read it.”
Wonderingly, Dick took the letter the editor handed him, and read:--
GRAND UNION HOTEL, Saratoga Springs.
_My dear Mr. Harding_,--If it will not violate any of your
office rules, I shall be greatly obliged if you will hand the
enclosed check for $250 to your young reporter who was here
to-day, Mr. Richard Sumner, as a slight token of my admiration
and esteem.
Mr. Sumner came to me for assistance when an attempt was made
to bribe him to suppress news. The money had been forced into his
pocket, and he put it at once in my hands to be returned to the
owner.
He was so heartbroken over the affair, so grieved that even an
attempt of the sort should be made that it really did me good to
see him. I owe him something for the new sensation he gave me,
and this little check will not nearly pay the bill.
Sincerely yours, HENRY CLAIR.
“Bother those blushes of mine!” Dick said to himself as he read the
letter. “Why in the world is it that the blood always rushes to my head
and makes me blush like a girl when anything excites me?”
“It is very kind in Mr. Clair, sir,” he said as he handed the letter
back to the editor; “but”--
“Of course not,” Mr. Harding interrupted. “It is not to be thought
of. Here is the check; send it back to Mr. Clair yourself with my
compliments and regrets. That is all, Mr. Sumner.”
It seemed to Dick that his dismissal was rather curt, but he was not
used yet to the ways of great editors with young reporters. He was
barely out of the room when a bell tapped.
Any Transport man would have known that it was the editor-in-chief’s
bell without hearing it. The movements of the office boy on duty would
have made that plain. At a tap of the editor-in-chief’s bell the office
boy flies, because a nod from the great man will put a new boy in his
place. For the managing editor’s bell he moves with some celerity,
for the managing editor is his immediate boss. The city editor’s bell
summons him usually, when it is struck hard and the tap is repeated.
When a reporter calls he is deeply engrossed in affairs of his own.
This time it was the bell of the editor-in-chief, and the boy flew past
Dick to answer the summons.
“Mr. Brown,” the editor said to the boy; and in a twinkling Mr. Brown
stood before his chief.
“What are you paying Sumner, Mr. Brown?” the editor asked.
“Fifteen dollars a week, sir.”
“He’s the man who did the Sing Sing story, isn’t he? And that humorous
account of the search for Sterling’s body?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may raise him to forty dollars, beginning with this week.”
“Very well, sir.”
That was all; the deed was done. If the Czar of Russia had ordered the
beheading of one of his subjects, the order could not have been obeyed
more promptly. A newspaper office is an absolute monarchy, and the
editor-in-chief is the monarch, particularly when, as is the case with
the Transport, the editor is also the principal owner. He distributes
his favors or his frowns according to his own sweet will. If he had
said, “I do not like Sumner’s work, let him go,” Dick’s career in that
office would have come to an untimely end. The city editor makes rules
for his reporters, but the editor-in-chief sweeps them away with a
breath when he chooses.
“Very well, sir,” said the city editor; and from that moment Dick’s
salary was forty dollars a week, besides the ten dollars or more extra
that he could make by writing specials.