9034
GREAT [26] metropolitan journal like the Banner, has a tendency to
swallow up individual characteristics in its own self-importance. A man
may be ever so clever with his pen, and contribute the most readable
articles day after day and year after year, and yet not one reader in
ten thousand has any idea whose composition he is perusing.
Vance Gilder was only one of the force, and yet he was a favorite with
his associates. He sometimes dreamed of promotion, and the time when
he would be a correspondent of note, or possibly at the head of some
important department on that great paper. Visions of special work which
would call him not only to different parts of his own country, but to
foreign parts as well, charmed him into contentment and renewed energy.
Only once during his connection with the Banner had he made anything
like a “hit.” He had on one solitary occasion succeeded in
“scooping” the other New York journals in a most masterly manner.
Indeed, to Vance belonged the credit of having completely humiliated the
other dailies with an article under flaming headlines and double-leaded.
As a compensation, he was sent for by [27] the chief, and received that
august person’s special thanks. This was a mark of distinction, for it
was seldom that he paid compliments. On the other hand, if the work was
not up to the standard, the staff generally heard from him in a
volley of profanity that caused them to doubt the permanency of their
positions.
On the night after Ben Bonfield started for Gold Bluff, Vance found
himself thinking a great deal about Gray Rocks. To a young man of
twenty-five, fifteen years seems a long time to wait for the possession
of one’s property. There is a certain fascination about the idea of
owning a gold mine, and this charm had taken possession of Vance to a
degree far beyond that which he was willing to admit, and between the
lines of copy, he speculated on the future and built many castles in the
air.
The half interest which his father owned in Gray Rocks had not been
named in the will, and as Vance was his only heir, it naturally occurred
to him that in case the old miner should “strike it rich,” he
would find himself with a handsome competency long before his fortieth
birthday.
For the first time during the years of his connection with the Banner,
a feeling of dissatisfaction stole over him, and he was glad Colonel
Bonfield had been so prompt in returning to Gold Bluff, for he felt
the work of sinking the shaft on Gray Rocks should be commenced at the
earliest possible moment. There was also a feeling of regret deep down
in his heart that he had not had an opportunity to know more of the fair
Louise, the remembrance of whose laughing blue eyes and perfect freedom
from affectation hovered near him with a distinctness that he had never
before experienced with any of his young lady friends. [28] He was in
this state of mind when the police reporter came in and declared that he
was disgusted with the scarcity of crime.
“I say, Vance,” saidhe, “it’s getting to be a pretty pass when
a fellow has to rummage all over the city for a few crumbs of accidental
deaths, street brawls and shooting affairs.”
9036
Before Vance had time to reply, the religious editor commenced swearing
about the uninteresting sermons he was compelled to write of late.
The dramatic critic observed that lie presumed writing sermons was a
rather stupid business, but if the reading public could endure them, the
religious editor ought to be able to, at $60 a week.
The religious editor said, “by Gad! old boy, you’re about right,”
and begged a cigarette of the dramatic critic, declaring that he did
not know with whom he would rather smoke than a representative of the
footlights. He then slapped Vance on the shoulder in a jocular way, and
asked him what made him so quiet.
“Scoops are scarce,” replied Vance, without lifting his eyes from
the copy he was revising.
“Scarce!” chimed in the city editor, “I should say so. We have not
had such a thing as a ‘scoop’ about the office for six months.”
“Journalism,” observed the dramatic critic, “is, without question,
the king of professions. Here we see life in its every phase.”
“I am [29] beginning to think,” said Vance, “that journalism is a
drudgery without hope or reward.”
“You astonish me,” replied the religious editor. “Why, Vance,”
he continued, knocking the ashes from his cigarette, “a fellow with as
bright a future in the profession as you have, making such a remark
as that, causes me to think you are growing cynical. Think of the
opportunities which journalism affords.”
“What opportunities,” replied Vance, “have I, or you, or any other
members of the staff, excepting those we have no right to take advantage
of? I freely admit that there is a fascination about the profession of
journalism; an influence, if you please, that holds us in the rut, much
the same as the current of a mighty river—always drawing everything
into the center where the current is swiftest—but the individuality of
the most talented among us is completely lost in the great octopus that
we are daily and nightly striving with our best efforts of brawn and
brain to keep supplied with news.”
“Bravo!” shouted the police reporter. “There is not an ordinary
prize-fighter in the land but has more individual reputation than any of
us. Vance is about right in his position.”
At this juncture of their conversation, a note was handed to Vance.
It was a polite request to report at the chief’s private room at ten
o’clock the next morning. After hastily glancing over it, Vance read
it aloud.
“I say, Vance, [30] old boy, that’s a little rough; and still,”
continued the religious editor, between vigorous puffs of his cigarette,
“it may be a step up.”
It was an open question with members of the force whether a formal
summons into the presence of the chief, without any intimation of the
nature of the interview, was a good omen or otherwise.
“Possibly,” responded Vance, “but I rather surmise it is a step
out.”
0038
“The evil is sufficient unto the day thereof,” observed the dramatic
critic. “It is twelve o’clock, boys; let us adjourn to the ‘realm
of pie,’ and there we will discuss the unlooked-for summons.”
A half dozen as jolly young fellows as could be found anywhere, were
soon seated in a private room at Thompson’s cafe, partaking of the
reporter’s stereotyped lunch. [31] As a result of their deliberations,
there were many hopeful expressions made for the benefit of Vance. There
was an under-current, however, of unmistakable belief, which Vance was
not slow to perceive and share, that his interview with the chief would
not result satisfactorily.
The dramatic critic soon drifted to the leeward of the question, and
with almost forced vivaciousness recounted the latest hit of a jolly
little soubrette dancer at Madison Square Gardens. His description was
not only interesting, but a welcome diversion from the somber subject
that might mean a separation of Vance from the staff. The religious
editor took up the cue where the dramatic critic let go, and commenced
swearing in newspaper parlance about the unsatisfactory work he was
doing in his department.
8039
The police reporter came in for a description of a “knock-out” he
had witnessed in the Bowery, and for the edification of his associates,
explained the difference between a “shoulder-strike” and an
“undercut.”
On returning to their respective posts of duty, there was but little
said, but it was noticeable that Vance was bid good night with more
consideration than usual.
As Vance hurried along toward the elevated road, his thoughts were again
filled with that demure little Louise, a product of the great mountains
of the west. With her had come a hope—perhaps only a visionary
one—stimulated by the enthusiasm of the old miner. He did not pause to
analyze [32] the sustaining hope which he experienced; he only knew that
it took off the keen edge of anxiety which otherwise he would have felt
concerning his coming interview with the chief.