METHODS OF MODERN JOURNALISM
Herbert had been advised to call at the Argus office at noon for the
purpose of presenting his letter of introduction to Mr. Blakeley,
the city editor of that newspaper. He prepared himself carefully for
the forthcoming interview, trying especially in a half conscious way
to rid himself of the rustic appearance which he felt might lessen
his prospects, or impair his prestige with the newspaper man he was
about to meet. The Argus office was located almost in the center of
the cluster of large buildings on Park Row, and as Herbert looked up
at the edifice he could not repress a feeling of pride at the thought
that in a day or so he would be numbered among the busy workers in that
bee-hive of industry.
He took the elevator and was shot up to the fifth floor with a
suddenness that almost took his breath away. A boy standing at the
door of this landing demanded his card, and while Herbert sat there
waiting for a reply he noticed that the door was kept locked, and that
newcomers were greeted with a large sign which read:
“Positively no admittance except on business.”
He thought this was rather inhospitable at the time, but later in his
career realized that it was a necessity in order to permit the orderly
and speedy transaction of business. A newspaper office is looked upon
as the Mecca for eccentric people of all kinds and characters and if
they were admitted promiscuously they would consume the time of the
editors and reporters and make it impossible to issue the paper at all.
Presently the office boy returned, and said:
“Step inside.”
He walked into a large room and was directed to a smaller room, which
was partitioned off in the extreme corner. A tall, thin man rose to
greet him, and nodding in a friendly way, pointed to a chair:
“I am sorry,” said this gentleman, “that Mr. Blakeley, the city editor
of the Argus, is not here to-day. This is his day off. However he spoke
to me about you and I am very glad to meet you; but it is not possible
for me to serve you in any way to-day. It will be necessary for you to
see him in person before you can go to work.”
Herbert thanked him for his courtesy and the pleasant manner in which
he had been greeted and promised to return again the next day. In
the few minutes he was in the office he noticed that the room was
gradually beginning to assume an air of activity. Men were coming
in constantly and seating themselves in front of desks in the large
apartment, which because of the ink and paper and pencils and furniture
looked very much like a large edition of the old schoolroom in Cleverly.
Herbert was quite disappointed at not seeing Mr. Blakeley on his
first visit, but resolved to utilize the remainder of the day by
sight-seeing. He visited many of the places of interest in New York,
including the Aquarium, the tomb of General Grant at Riverside Park,
and the Metropolitan Museum in Central Park. All of these things
were deeply interesting, and in a larger sense highly educational.
On his way home he purchased copies of all the afternoon papers, and
after dinner that evening spent several hours in going over them very
carefully with a view of becoming familiar with the style of reporting
that prevailed on the popular newspapers in New York City. In spite
of the fact that he had put in a very busy day he went to bed with a
feeling of regret over the apparent loss of two whole days.
At noon the following day he was again at the Argus office, and this
time was successful in meeting Mr. Blakeley. The city editor was a
short, stockily built man, wearing eyeglasses and possessed of a
quick, nervous manner. He looked Herbert over from head to foot as soon
as he entered and gazed at him very earnestly during all the course of
their brief conversation.
“Harkins,” he said, after the usual greeting, “I am going to put you
on the Argus at a salary. This is somewhat unusual, because nearly all
on our staff are space men. New men especially are put on space, which
simply means that they are paid for what they write, in order to test
their ability. But Mr. Anderson, who is an old friend of mine, has
recommended you so highly that I am going to put you on the regular
staff at once; and I will give you three weeks in which to demonstrate
your ability to hold the place down permanently.”
“I thank you very much,” said Herbert, “I will try to prove myself
worthy of the confidence you are placing in me.”
“That’s all right,” said the other skeptically, “I don’t want any
promises; all I want is the performance.”
“All right, sir,” said Herbert; “I’ll not make any promises; but I can
assure you that I will try to size up to the position.”
“That sounds business,” retorted the other in his quick, jerky style.
Then looking up at the calendar, he said musingly: “It’s a little too
late in the week for you to do anything now. You can report for duty
at noon next Monday. Meantime I would advise you to become acquainted
with the city and its institutions, and to book yourself up as speedily
as possible on the men and things who go to make up life in this busy
town.”
Herbert promised to do as he was advised, and then met the tall, spare
man with whom he had held the conversation the day before. This was the
assistant city editor, who took him in hand and introduced him to such
other members of the Argus staff as were in the office at that time.
They were all pleasant and affable, but Herbert took an immediate and
special liking to Francis Tomlin, one of the reporters, who had greeted
him in a very kindly spirit.
“Don’t permit the noise and bustle and confusion of this place to
confuse you,” said Tomlin, “because it will not take you many days to
know that that is merely the outer covering, or what we might call
the atmosphere of the place. You will find that the work itself moves
along in a precise and systematic manner. Come in to-night around the
midnight hour and see the office going at full blast.”
Herbert accepted the invitation, and just before the clock towers were
striking the mystic hour he entered the local room of the Argus. Tomlin
had phrased it correctly. The office was in full blast. The news room
immediately adjoined the city room, and between the two the noise and
bustle and air of activity were confusing to one not accustomed to that
sort of thing. Telegraph instruments in two corners of the room ticked
away continuously. A man at the long distance telephone sat in front of
a typewriter and transcribed a story that was being sent in over the
wire from a little town fifteen miles away. The assistant city editor
shouted through the speaking tube to the foreman of the composing room
about every ten or fifteen minutes. Telegraph boys came in every few
minutes, carrying little yellow envelopes bearing within their modest
covers the news of the entire habitable globe. The news editors sitting
at their big desks tore the wrappings off these silent messengers, and
after editing them, put suggestive and snappy headlines over them for
the benefit of their thousands of readers of the following morning. A
dozen reporters sitting at their desks scratched away for dear life,
or pounded the typewriters in their haste to put the words together
which were to furnish the subscribers of the Argus with a comprehensive
account of everything of interest that had happened in the great city
during the previous twenty-four hours. Nothing was too small, nothing
too great to be gathered in this enormous dragnet of publicity and
furnished to eager men and women with their coffee and rolls on the
following morning.
Herbert was entranced with the scene. He had already been fascinated
by the smell of printers’ ink and had a very intelligent idea of
the methods of modern journalism; but this scene wherein apparently
hopeless confusion gradually worked itself out into perfect order and
system, furnished the capstone to his already stimulated imagination.
He longed to take an active part in it.
As he looked around the room his eye was attracted to little slips of
paper posted on a bulletin board near the city editor’s desk. These
informed all who were interested, whether John Jones or John Smith
was absent or on duty; prohibited the men from smoking in the office,
and contained little bits of poetry and anecdotes which had been
surreptitiously posted there by some of the men on the staff. There was
one thing on the bulletin board that attracted Herbert’s attention more
than anything else. It might be called a code of fundamental principles
for the aspiring reporter. It read as follows:
“Be accurate, courteous, earnest, enterprising, enthusiastic, faithful,
honest, manly, modest, observant, persevering, pleasant, prompt, quick,
sensible, shrewd, tactful, temperate.
“Ask plenty of questions, and don’t forget the answers.
“Know all you can, but don’t know it all.
“Study history, political economy, learn shorthand, use a typewriter.
“Keep posted on current events; cultivate numerous acquaintances; say
little, listen much.
“Never violate confidence; be honest with yourself, your employers, and
the public. Have a conscience. Don’t fake. Merit confidence. Command
respect.
“Know men; know facts, then write the plain truth simply. Write plainly
and avoid flub. Write for the people. Write English. Be clear, concise,
direct.
“When sent for news get it, and get it right. Accuracy, accuracy,
accuracy.
“Never write anything you would not sign your name to. Realize your
responsibility.
“Never be unjust or unmanly; cultivate a pleasant address, be
persistent, but polite.
“Observe everything. Study human nature. Study newspapers of different
cities and make a model of the best.
“Cultivate humor. Be charitable. Speak kindly.
“Keep your presence of mind.
“Read good literature; avoid debasing associations.
“Hustle.”
After reading this, and resolving to memorize it for his own benefit,
Herbert went to one of the unoccupied desks and began looking over some
of the newspapers. While he was thus engaged the assistant city editor
rushed up to him carrying a clipping taken from one of the afternoon
papers.
“See here, Harkins!” he shouted, “how would you like to make yourself
useful--you’re not on the staff yet, but it won’t do you any harm to
try and get your hand in.”
“I’d be delighted,” said Herbert; “what is it?”
“Here, take this clipping,” was the reply; “it’s from one of the
afternoon papers. I’d like you to re-write it and condense it for the
Argus. Get it up quickly. It’s for one of the inside pages, and it must
be in the composing room before one o’clock.”
Herbert took the clipping and read it carefully. It told about the
arrival in New York of Madame Bonneville, a celebrated French actress,
who was coming to this country for the purpose of making her farewell
tour. There was a spirited description of her arrival on the pier amid
a cloud of trunks, packages and dress-suit cases, not to mention two or
three bird cages, half a dozen umbrellas, a green poll-parrot and a pet
poodle dog which she insisted on carrying in her arms and embracing in
a most motherly fashion.
Herbert gazed at this account long and earnestly. It contained a brief
interview with the actress, and while the whole thing was intensely
interesting and human, it really contained little actual news excepting
the fact that the actress had arrived and being wearied with her long
journey, had retired immediately to her apartments. How to re-write and
reduce this article and make it different from the clipping, and yet
retain the news and the interest, was the problem that presented itself
to the young aspirant for journalistic honors. He got down to work at
last, however, because he felt that if a person intended doing a thing
there was nothing like doing it. It would not be wise to theorize much
while the assistant city editor was shouting for copy. Herbert never
worked harder on any of the things he had contributed to his own little
paper in the country than he did on the re-writing of this scrap of New
York news. After much patient labor, he finally completed his work, and
found to his satisfaction that he had reduced the article just one-half
and still retained some semblance of a good story. He carried it over
to the assistant city editor, who glanced at it hastily, and said
sharply, without the slightest note of explanation:
“Won’t do. Too long. Put it in a stick or two.”
Herbert walked back to his desk rather disappointed. He knew that the
news in the article could be put into a stick or two, but he felt
instinctively that the item would be robbed of all its interest.
However, he sat down once more and wrote a ten line paragraph, which
met with the approval and acceptance of the busy assistant city editor.
He arose early the next morning and hunted for a copy of the Argus with
much eagerness. He knew that the little paragraph which he had finally
turned in at his first piece of work in New York did not amount to
anything; but he could not restrain the longing desire to see himself
in print for the first time in a metropolitan newspaper. He took the
Argus and went over it with extreme care from the first to the last
page. Nothing in the paper escaped his keen, inquiring gaze. When he
had concluded he laid it aside with a sigh of disappointment.
His ten line story had not been printed.