TEMPTED.
“Pardon me, sir, but may I take the liberty of asking you if you are not
a newspaper man?” said Gale, addressing Editor Carroll’s office boy.
Master Charles Miggles, better known in the _Bulletin_ office as
“Miggsy,” regarded the speaker with some suspicion. Miggsy was only
fourteen years old, and not in the habit of being addressed as “sir.” To
be looked upon as a newspaper man was also a brand-new experience for
him. He had never dared to consider that his job as office boy in the
_Bulletin_ office entitled him to that classification.
Miggsy’s first thought, therefore, was that he was being joshed by the
good-looking, nattily dressed young man who thus addressed him. A brief
study of the latter’s face, however, caused him to change his mind.
Apparently this polite stranger was perfectly serious.
Whereupon Miggsy’s chest suddenly swelled with pride. Nothing could have
flattered him more than to be treated in this fashion. He was a
precocious youngster, and since the tender age of twelve his greatest
regret had been that he was not yet old enough to use a razor.
“I may be wrong, of course,” the good-looking young man went on, with a
smile, “but I don’t think so. I am a pretty good judge of men, and there
is something about your appearance that tells me that you are a
newspaper man. Am I right, sir?”
Miggsy smiled graciously. “You are a good guesser, mister; I am on the
_Daily Bulletin_,” he said, fervently hoping that the other would not
inquire as to the specific nature of his duties.
“I knew it!” the good-looking man exclaimed triumphantly. “I can tell a
brother scribe every time. Shake hands, old chap. I, too, am a newspaper
man. My name is Gale--formerly of the New York _Daily News_, now of the
Oldham _Daily Chronicle_.”
Miggsy’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. “Gee!” he exclaimed
excitedly, “I know who you are. You’re the son of the guy what owns the
_Chronicle_. I heard about you being in town.”
Gale smiled. “Yes, my father does own the _Chronicle_,” he said simply.
“I have come to help him run the sheet. We are going to introduce a lot
of improvements, and run the paper on the lines of a New York daily. By
the way, Mr.--er--Mr. ----” He paused inquiringly.
“Miggles,” said the boy. “Mister Charles Miggles.”
“Thank you! By the way, Mr. Miggles, one of our first changes will be to
enlarge our reportorial staff. My father has asked me to get him some
good men. How would you like to work for the _Chronicle_?”
Miggsy could scarcely believe that he was not dreaming. Could it really
be possible that this affable young man did not suspect that he was only
a fourteen-year-old office boy? Could it really be that he, Miggsy, was
being offered a job as a reporter on the _Chronicle_?
His first impulse was to take advantage of this extraordinary
opportunity which fate had thrown his way. In his precocious brain there
arose the daring thought that he could make good. He had long been of
the opinion that news gathering was “dead easy,” and that he could go
out and cover a story as well as “some of them boobs in the _Bulletin_
office what called themselves reporters.”
Once he had plucked up his courage, and asked Mr. Carroll to give him a
chance at reporting. The proprietor of the _Bulletin_ had laughed in a
most unfeeling manner, and told him to wait until he grew some.
Miggsy frowned now as he recalled that unpleasant incident. As though it
mattered what a fellow’s age was, so long as he could deliver the goods!
Gale laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder with a patronizing air.
“If the proposition appeals to you at all,” he said, “suppose you come
and talk it over with my father, right now, Mr. Miggles. If you are
willing to make a change, I think we can put you to work immediately.
How would you like to cover police?”
How would he like to cover police! The job of President of the United
States didn’t appeal to Miggsy nearly as much as that. His eyes sparkled
at the thought.
Then suddenly it occurred to him that he could not possibly bluff his
way into this new job, as he had thought of doing. As soon as he entered
the _Chronicle_ office he was sure to be unmasked; for unfortunately he
was known to several members of that newspaper’s staff. And--alas, cruel
fate!--they knew him, not as Mr. Charles Miggles, a brother scribe, but
as plain Miggsy, the _Bulletin’s_ office boy.
“Come, what do you say, Mr. Miggles?” said Gale, with an encouraging
smile. “Will you come with me now, and talk it over with my father? I
think it will pay you to do so.”
Miggsy decided that candor would be his best course. After all, there
was a chance that he might be able to convince this nice young man that
notwithstanding his painful youth and his lack of actual experience, he
was quite competent to cover police for the _Chronicle_.
“I’m afraid I ain’t quite as old as I look, Mr. Gale,” he began
diffidently.
“That doesn’t matter,” was the reassuring response. “Age is of no
consequence. It is ability that counts, Mr. Miggles.”
“And I ain’t had an experience at reporting,” Miggles went on, hanging
his head. “I’ve been doing--er--inside work.”
Gale received this admission with a pleasant smile. “Lack of experience
isn’t of much consequence, either, Mr. Miggles,” he said. “As a matter
of fact, we prefer to take on green reporters and train them to our
ways. So don’t let those things worry you, old man.”
Miggsy’s face lighted up at these words. “All right, then,” he cried
eagerly. “If that’s the case, I’m on.”
With a smile of satisfaction, Gale hurriedly led the boy to the
Chronicle Building, and bade him wait in the editorial room while he
went in to have a short preliminary talk with his father in the latter’s
private office.
A few minutes later Gale came to the door of the private office, and
beckoned to Miggsy to enter.
“I’ve paved the way for you,” he whispered to the boy. “Put up a good
front, now, and you’ll surely get the job.”
The old gentleman with the white mutton-chop whiskers who was seated at
a desk in the center of the room smiled benevolently at his youthful
visitor.
“How do you do, young man?” he said. “Pray be seated. My son has been
telling me that you would like a position on the _Chronicle’s_
reportorial staff.”
“If you please, sir,” returned Miggsy, sitting on the extreme edge of a
chair and fidgeting nervously with his hat. Not that Miggsy was
habitually shy, or easily put out of countenance, but the momentousness
of this occasion had got upon his nerves.
“Humph!” grunted the elder Gale, looking keenly at the boy. “It seems to
me that you are somewhat young to be a reporter.”
“I can do the work, sir,” declared Miggsy. “And--I expect to grow, sir.”
The proprietor of the _Chronicle_ appeared to be greatly tickled by this
answer.
“You expect to grow!” he echoed, with a chuckle. “That’s pretty neat.
Very well said, young man. I see you have wit. That is an important
qualification in newspaper work. Besides, my son, here, approves of you.
In fact, I may say, young man, that he has taken a great fancy to you;
and I have implicit confidence in my son’s judgment. Therefore I am
inclined, in spite of your exceedingly youthful appearance, to give you
a chance.” He turned to his son inquiringly. “What do you think we had
better give this young man to do?”
“I thought we might put him in Tomlinson’s place, to cover police,” the
younger Gale suggested.
The proprietor of the _Chronicle_ leaned back in his chair and gazed
thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Humph! I don’t know. Covering police is a
pretty difficult assignment. It requires ingenuity and nerve. Do you
think this young man has ingenuity and nerve?”
“I feel sure that he has,” declared the younger Gale stoutly. “I am
confident that Mr. Miggles will make good, governor.”
“Sure!” exclaimed Miggsy eagerly. “You just try me, sir.”
The proprietor of the _Chronicle_ smiled at the boy approvingly. “I like
that suggestion, young man. It shows that you have self-confidence--a
most valuable asset in the newspaper business. I have a good mind to put
you to the test, right now. Suppose I were to send you out on a trial
assignment, which would give you a chance to prove to me that you have
sufficient ingenuity and nerve?”
“That’s a good idea, governor,” exclaimed the younger Gale, with great
enthusiasm. He turned and winked at Miggsy. “As the old saying goes,
‘actions speak louder than words.’ Send Mr. Miggles out on a trial
assignment right now, with the understanding that if he covers it
successfully he starts right in to cover police for the _Chronicle_ at a
salary of--what will the salary be, governor?”
“Oh, I guess we’ll start him at fifteen dollars a week,” replied the
elder Gale carelessly. “With rapid advancement if he proves deserving,
of course.”
Miggsy’s eyes glistened. He could scarcely believe that he was not
dreaming. His wages on the _Bulletin_ were three dollars a week. The
thought of earning five times that much, and of being a reporter instead
of an office boy, quite took his breath away.
“Just try me, sir!” he exclaimed eagerly. “All I ask is a chance to show
what I can do.”
“Very well, my boy,” said the proprietor of the _Chronicle_, with a
benevolent smile, “you shall have that chance.” He stroked his white
mutton-chop whiskers meditatively. “Let me see, now; what assignment
shall we give him? Can you suggest one, my son, that will be an adequate
test of his nerve and ingenuity?”
His son shrugged his shoulders. “I prefer to leave it to you, governor,”
he said.
The elder Gale gazed up at the ceiling for a few moments. Then, as
though he had found an inspiration there, he turned to his son with a
chuckle.
“I have it!” he exclaimed. “Suppose we send him to get those _Bulletin_
pictures?”
“The very thing,” declared the younger Gale enthusiastically. “That
certainly will be a fair test of Mr. Miggles’ ability. It is definitely
understood, governor, that if Mr. Miggles makes good on this assignment
he is to cover police for us, at a salary of fifteen dollars per week.”
“Certainly; that is the agreement. Explain to the young man, my son,
exactly what he has to do.”