DIFFICULTY
Herbert was still young enough to be sensitive, and the thought that
his maiden effort in the big city had probably found its way into the
waste paper basket was galling to his natural pride. However, he braced
himself and called at the office at noon again, and smilingly greeted
his colleagues. He learned some things during the day, and one was a
conviction that success on a country newspaper did not necessarily fit
a man for immediate employment on a metropolitan daily. He had a long
and confidential talk with Frank Tomlin, during the course of which he
related his experience and the fate of his first item.
Tomlin laughed heartily at the recital.
“You can’t afford to be thin-skinned in New York, my boy,” he replied.
“Besides, you are mistaken about your item. It was written all right,
but was crowded out in the make-up.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am satisfied of it. I have helped Blakeley to make up the paper
on more than one occasion, and there were times when stories bigger
and more important than yours and which were in type were thrown aside
for want of space. So don’t let a little thing like that trouble you.
Persevere; do the best you can, and don’t permit yourself to be cast
down by little incidents of this kind.”
Herbert thanked him for this friendly advice and promised to profit by
it. The talk caused Tomlin to drift into a train of reminiscences.
“I’ll never forget my first experience in the newspaper business in
this city,” he said musingly; “it satisfied me that enterprise, while
quite valuable in itself, is not the most important thing in the
gathering of news. I know that when I began I was eager to accomplish
great things.
“One morning the city editor assigned me to a meeting of the Municipal
League, and as I was leaving the room he called out:
“‘See here, I want you to put a little ginger in your articles. We want
to brighten the paper up a bit.’
“It was a prosy gathering. Most of the members of the league were
elderly or old men, and they made long winded speeches and accomplished
little business. There did not seem to be much prospect of a bright
article in the ordinary report of a meeting of this character. I
decided to burlesque the meeting. The result was all that could be
desired. The city editor was not ‘on’ and the story went straight to
the copy desk.
“The next morning I was informed the proprietor wanted to see me. I
felt at once that this summons had something to do with my article.
When I entered the room, he looked at me curiously and in silence for
some moments.
“‘Did you write the meeting of the Municipal League which appears in
this morning’s paper?’
“‘I did,’ I answered, swelling up with pride.
“He was silent.
“‘Didn’t you like the report?’ I finally inquired.
“‘Yes,’ he said, prolonging the word in a strange manner.
“‘Wasn’t it good enough?’ I inquired.
“‘Oh, yes,’ with a peculiar laugh; ‘it was bright.’ Then turning to me
he said impressively: ‘I have no doubt in the world that the members of
the league deserve all the ridicule you cast on them, but,’ he added,
‘it should not have been printed in my paper. I am the president of the
Municipal League.’”
Herbert and Tomlin remained in conversation for a long while, and
the older man regaled his companion with a batch of very interesting
stories bearing upon the incidents that take place behind the scenes of
journalism. They walked home together that night, and Herbert, feeling
that Tomlin was a man in whom he could trust and confide, confessed to
him the low condition of his finances.
“I thought I would get immediate employment,” he said, “and as a
consequence brought only a small amount of money with me from the
country. I met an old acquaintance who was on his uppers and gave him
a large part of my surplus. As the result of this and my other little
expenditures, I have only about two dollars.”
“Do you want to borrow anything?” said the other, turning to him
quickly; “I will be glad to stake you if you do.”
“Not at all,” said Herbert hastily, “I hope you won’t think I
introduced the subject for that purpose. But it will be about ten days
before I receive my first pay; and in the meantime next week’s board
bill will be due and payable. I wondered whether I could not earn a
little money in the meantime.”
“Certainly,” said Tomlin; “it will give you an opportunity for showing
what is in you, too. The thing is easy enough. Write some space for the
Argus. Blakeley is always willing to accept a good story, and if you
can go out into this human whirlpool to-morrow and fish up something a
little bit out of the ordinary he will be only too glad to print it,
and pay you for it, too.”
The following day, acting on the suggestion of his friend, Herbert
made the rounds of the city hospitals. The usual routine stories
presented themselves at all of these institutions; but most of them
were covered by staff men, and for that reason were not available for
a special space-writer. While Herbert was pondering over what was best
to do under the circumstances, it suddenly dawned on him that perhaps
the obvious thing might make the best story after all. Things that were
happening every day in the week were looked upon as being trite and
trivial. If he could take one of these incidents and lift it out of
the rut and make it stand toweringly above other incidents of a like
character he would make a hit. To think was to act. He went to the head
keeper in the next hospital and asked to look over the book of records.
Among the items inscribed there was one which told about a patient who
had attempted suicide, but whose life would be saved. Herbert asked
whether he could obtain the details of this story, and was told that if
he applied to one of the assistants in the main ward he might obtain
some additional information. He did obtain more facts, and he hurried
to the office, eager to write the story. The heading was “How a Trained
Nurse Defeated Death.”
The introduction described how a demure little nurse in the hospital
who looked as if she might weigh not more than one hundred pounds,
started on a walking match against death at five o’clock in the
evening, and finished at six o’clock in the morning--a winner. The
story went on and told how the ambulance had brought a twenty-two year
old girl to the hospital after she had swallowed enough opium to send
three or four strong men to their death. The poor, misguided girl who
had taken the poison on account of a case of unrequited love, showed a
strong desire to go to sleep. The little nurse knew that if the girl
closed her eyes they would never again open in this world; so she tried
to keep her awake by slapping her on the back.
That method was not strenuous enough, so the long walk was started.
It was up and down the corridor of the receiving ward, and out into
the hall and the yard. Whenever the nurse became tired she sat down to
rest for a moment; but as soon as the girl nodded the walk was resumed.
All through the lonesome hours of the night this unique feat of
pedestrianism was continued. Daylight appeared, and still the walk went
on. Finally the clock struck six, and the two women were still walking.
Shortly after that the house physician made his appearance, and giving
the girl a careful examination, pronounced her out of danger. Then, and
not until then, the nurse went to sleep, and even while Herbert was
writing his picturesque story she was still sleeping the sleep of the
just and the brave.
His story made over a column in the Argus. It proved to be a palpable
hit. Blakeley, the city editor, who did not see it until he picked up
the paper the next morning, gloated over it with the glee with which
a miser examines a newly found diamond. He patted Herbert on the back
and said that if he continued to turn in stories of that character his
period of probation would be short indeed and his permanence on the
paper assured.
But the best feature of the incident, to Herbert’s mind, came on
Friday afternoon, when he called at the business office and received a
check for $8 for his piece of special reporting. This gave him a total
cash balance of $10 and enabled him to pay his board bill and to look
forward with confidence to the coming of his regular pay-days.