A NOSE FOR NEWS
Through the maze of the older streets of Havana, with their two-story
houses plastered and colored in gay tints, Stuart rushed, regardlessly.
He knew Havana, but, even if he had not known it, the boy's whole soul
was set on getting the ear of the United States Consul. It was not until
he was almost at the door of the consulate that his promise to Cecil
recurred to him as a reminder that he must be watchful how he spoke.
At the door of the consulate, however, he found difficulty of admission.
This was to be expected. His appearance was unprepossessing. He was
still attired in the ragged clothes tied up with string, and the aged
boots he had got Leon to procure for him, to complete his disguise as a
Haitian boy. Moreover, while the soap-weed wash at the fisherman's hut
had whitened his skin, his face and hands still retained a smoky pallor
which would take some time to wear off.
In order to gain admission at all, Stuart was compelled to give some
hint as to his reasons for wishing to see the consul, and, as he did not
wish to divulge anything of importance to the clerk, his explanation
sounded as extravagant as it was vague. His father's name would have
helped him, but Stuart did not feel justified in using it. For all he
knew, his father might have reasons for not wishing to be known as
conducting any such investigations. This compulsion of reserve confused
the lad, and it was not surprising that the clerk went into the
vice-consul's office with the remark:
"There's a ragged boy out here, who passes for white, with some
wild-eyed story he says he has to tell you."
"I suppose I've got to see him," said the harassed official. "Send him
in!"
This introduction naturally prejudiced the vice-consul against his
visitor, and Stuart's appearance did not call for confidence. Moreover,
the boy's manner was against him. He was excited and resentful over his
brusque treatment by the clerk. Boy-like, he exaggerated his own
importance. He was bursting with his subject.
In his embarrassed eagerness to capture the vice-consul's attention and
to offset the unhappy first impression of his appearance, Stuart blurted
out an incoherent story about secret meetings, and buried treasure and
conspiracy, and plots in Haiti, all mixed together. His patriotic
utterances, though absolutely sincere, rang with a note of insincerity
to an official to whom the letters "U. S." were not the "open sesame" of
liberty, but endless repetitions of his daily routine.
"What wild-cat yarn is this!" came the interrupting remark.
Stuart stopped, hesitated and looked bewildered. It had not occurred to
him that the consular official would not be as excited as himself. He
spluttered exclamations.
"There's a Haitian, and a Cuban, and an Englishman in a conspiracy
against the United States! And they meet in a haunted citadel! And one
said I was to kill the other! And I got away in a parachute. And they're
going to do something, revolution, I believe, and----"
Undoubtedly, if the vice-consul had been willing to listen, and patient
enough to calm the boy's excitement and unravel the story, its value
would have been apparent. But his skeptical manner only threw Stuart
more off his balance. The vice-consul was, by temperament, a man of
routine, an efficient official but lacking in imagination. Besides, it
was almost the end of office hours, and the day had been hot and sultry.
He was only half-willing to listen.
"Tell your story, straight, from the beginning," he snapped.
Stuart tried to collect himself a little.
"It was the night of the Full Moon," he began, dramatically. "There was
a voodoo dance, and the tom-tom began to beat, and----"
This was too much!
"You've been seeing too many movies, or reading dime-novel trash," the
official flung back. "Besides, this isn't the place to come to. Go and
tell your troubles to the consul at Port-au-Prince."
He rang to have the boy shown out.
The next visitor to the vice-consul, who had been cooling his heels in
the outer office while Stuart was vainly endeavoring to tell his story,
was the Special Correspondent of a New York paper. It was his habit to
drop in from time to time to see the vice-consul and to get the latest
official news to be cabled to his paper.
"I wish you'd been here half-an-hour ago, Dinville, and saved me from
having to listen to a blood-and-thunder yarn about pirates and plots and
revolutions and the deuce knows what!" the official exclaimed
petulantly.
"From that kid who just went out?" queried the newspaper man casually,
nosing a story, but not wanting to seem too eager.
"Yes, the little idiot! You'd think, from the way he talked, that the
West Indies was just about ready to blow up!"
His bile thus temporarily relieved, the official turned to the matter in
hand, and proceeded to give out such items of happenings at the
consulate as would be of interest to the general public.
The newspaper man made his stay as brief as he decently could. He wanted
to trace that boy. Finding out from the clerk that the boy had come in
from the east by train, and, having noted for himself that the lad was
in rags, the Special Correspondent--an old-time New York reporter--felt
sure that the holder of the story must be hungry and that he did not
have much money. Accordingly, he searched the nearest two or three cheap
restaurants, and, sure enough, found Stuart in the third one he entered.
Ordering a cup of coffee and some pastry, the reporter seated himself at
Stuart's table and deftly got into conversation with him. Inventing, for
the moment, a piece of news which would turn the topic to Haiti,
Dinville succeeding in making the boy tell him, as though by accident,
that he had recently been in Haiti.
"So!" exclaimed the reporter. "Well, you seem to be a pretty keen
observer. What did you think of things in Haiti when you left?"
Stuart was flattered--as what boy would not have been--by this
suggestion that his political opinions were of importance, and he gave
himself all the airs of a grown-up, as he voiced his ideas. Many of them
were of real value, for, unconsciously, Stuart was quoting from the
material he had found in his father's papers, when he had rescued them
from Hippolyte.
Dinville led him on, cautiously, tickling his vanity the while, and,
before the meal was over, Stuart felt that he had found a friend. He
accepted an invitation to go up to the news office, so that his recently
made acquaintance might take some notes of his ideas.
The news-gatherer had not been a reporter for nothing, and, before ten
minutes had passed Stuart suddenly realized that he was on the verge of
telling the entire story, even to those things which he knew must be
held back. Cecil's warning recurred to him, and he pulled up short.
"I guess I hadn't better say any more," he declared, suddenly, and
wondered how much he had betrayed himself into telling.
Persuasion and further flattery failed, and the newspaper man saw that
he must change his tactics.
"You were willing enough to talk to the vice-consul," he suggested.
"Yes, but I wasn't going to tell him everything, either," the boy
retorted.
"You're not afraid to?"
Stuart's square chin protruded in its aggressive fashion.
"Afraid!" he declared contemptuously. Then he paused, and continued,
more slowly, "Well, in a way, maybe I am afraid. I don't know all I've
got hold of. Why--it might sure enough bring on War!"
Once on his guard, Stuart was as unyielding as granite. He feared he had
said too much already. The reporter, shrewdly, suggested that some of
Stuart's political ideas might be saleable newspaper material, handed
him a pencil and some copy-paper.
The boy, again flattered by this subtle suggestion that he was a
natural-born writer, covered sheet after sheet of the paper. Dinville
read it, corrected a few minor mistakes here and there, counted the
words, and taking some money from his pocket, counted out a couple of
bills and pushed them over to the boy.
"What's this for?" asked Stuart.
"For the story!" answered the reporter in well-simulated surprise.
"Regular space rates, six dollars a column. I'm not allowed to give
more, if that's what you mean."
"Oh, no!" was the surprised reply. "I just meant--I was ready to do that
for nothing."
"What for?" replied his new friend. "Why shouldn't you be paid for it,
just as well as anyone else? Come in tomorrow, maybe we can dope out
some other story together."
A little more urging satisfied the rest of Stuart's scruples and he
walked out from the office into the streets of Havana tingling with
pleasure to his very toes. This was the first money he had ever earned
and it fired him with enthusiasm to become a writer.
As soon as he had left, the reporter looked over the sheets of
copy-paper, covered with writing in a boyish hand.
"Not so bad," he mused. "The kid may be able to write some day,"
and--dropped the sheets into the waste-paper basket.
Why had he paid for them, then? Dinville knew what he was about.
He reached for a sheet of copy-paper and wrote the following dispatch--
WHALE - OF - BIG - STORY. - INFORMANT - A - KID. - WORTH - SENDING
- KID - NEW - YORK - PAPER'S - EXPENSE - IF - AUTHORIZED. -
DINVILLE.
He filed it in the cable office without delay.
Before midnight he got a reply.
IF - KID - HAS - THE - GOODS - SEND - NEW - YORK - AT - ONCE.
"Here," said Dinville aloud, as he read the cablegram, "is where Little
Willie was a wise guy in buying that kid's story. He'll land in here
tomorrow like a bear going to a honey-tree."
His diagnosis was correct to the letter. Early the next morning Stuart
came bursting in, full of importance. He had spruced up a little, though
the four dollars he had got from Dinville the night before was not
sufficient for new clothes.
"Say," he said, the minute he entered the office, "Mr. Dinville, I've
got a corker!"
"So?" queried the reporter, lighting a cigar and putting his feet on the
desk in comfortable attitude for listening. "Fire away!"
With avid enthusiasm, Stuart plunged into a wild and woolly yarn which
would have been looked upon with suspicion by the editor of a
blood-and-thunder twenty-five-cent series.
The reporter cut him off abruptly.
"Kid," he said dryly, "the newspaper game is on the level. I don't say
that you don't have to give a twist to a story, every once in a while,
so that it'll be interesting, but it's got to be news.
"Get this into your skull if you're ever going to be a newspaper man:
Every story you write has got to have happened, actually happened, to
somebody, somewhere, at some place, at a certain time, for some reason.
If it hasn't, it isn't a newspaper story. What's more, it must be either
unusual or important, or it hasn't any value. Again, it must have
happened recently, or it isn't news. And there's another rule. One big
story is worth more than a lot of small ones.
"Now, look here. You've got a big story, a real news story, up your
sleeve. It happened to you. It occurred at an unusual place. It has only
just happened. It's of big importance. And the why seems to be a
mystery. If you were a A Number One newspaper man, it would be your job
to get on the trail of that story and run it down."
And then the reporter conceived the idea of playing on Stuart's sense of
patriotism.
"That way," he went on, "it happens that there's no class of people that
does more for its country than the newspaper men. They show up the
crooks, and they can point out praise when public praise is due. They
expose the grafters and help to elect the right man to office. They root
out public evils and push reform measures through. They're Democracy, in
type."
The words fanned the fire of Stuart's enthusiasm for a newspaper
career.
"Yes," he said, excitedly, "yes, I can see that!"
"Take this story of yours--this plot that you speak about and are afraid
to tell. You think it's planned against the United States'?"
"I'm sure it is!"
"Well, how are you going to run it down? How are you going to get all
the facts in the case? Who can you trust to help you in this? Where are
you going to get all the money that it will take? Why, Kid, if these
conspirators you talk of have anything big up their sleeve, they could
buy people right and left to put you off the track and you'd never get
anywhere! On your own showing, they've just plumped you down here in
Havana, where there's nothing doing."
"They sure have," admitted Stuart ruefully.
"Of course they have. Now, if you had one of the big American newspapers
backing you up, one that you could put confidence in, it would be just
as if you had the United States back of you, and you'd be part and
parcel of that big power which is the trumpet-voice of Democracy from
the Atlantic to the Pacific--the Press!"
The boy's eyes began to glisten with eagerness. Every word was striking
home.
"But how could I do that?"
"You don't have to. It's already done!"
Stuart stared at his friend, in bewilderment.
"See here," he said, and he threw the cablegram on the table. "That
paper is willing to pay any price for a big story, if it can be proved
authentic. Proved, mind you, documents and all the rest of it. I cabled
them to know if they wanted to see you, and, if they found what you had
was the real goods, whether they would stake you. They cabled back,
right away, that you were to go up there."
"Up where?"
"N'York."
"But I haven't money enough to go to New York!" protested Stuart.
"Who said anything about money? That's up to the paper. Your expenses
both ways, and your expenses while you're in N'York, will all be paid."
"Are you sure?"
"Seeing that I'll pay your trip up there myself, and charge it up on my
own expense account, of course I'm sure. There's a boat going tomorrow."
"But you couldn't get a berth for tomorrow," protested Stuart, though he
was weakening. He had never been to New York, and the idea of a voyage
there, with his fare and all his expenses paid, tempted him. Besides, as
the reporter had suggested, it would be almost impossible for him to
continue the quest of Manuel, Leborge and Cecil alone. More than that,
the boy felt that, if he could get a big metropolitan paper to back him,
he would be in a position to find and rescue his father.
"Can't get a berth? Watch me!" said the reporter, who was anxious to
impress upon the lad the importance of the press. And, sure enough, he
came back an hour later, with a berth arranged for Stuart in the
morrow's steamer. He also advanced money enough to the boy for a
complete outfit of clothes. An afternoon spent in a Turkish bath
restored to the erstwhile disguised lad his formerly white skin.
One sea-voyage is very much like another. Stuart made several
acquaintances on board, one of them a Jamaican, and from his traveling
companion, Stuart learned indirectly that Great Britain's plan of
welding her West India possessions into a single colony was still a live
issue. The boy, himself, remembering how easily he had been pumped by
Dinville, was careful not to say a word about the purpose of his trip.
Thanks to Dinville's exact instructions, Stuart found the newspaper
office without difficulty. The minute he stepped out of the elevator and
on the floor, a driving expectancy possessed him. The disorderliness,
the sense of tension, the combination of patient waiting and driving
speed, the distant and yet perceptible smell of type metal and printers'
ink, in short, the atmosphere of a newspaper, struck him with a sense of
desire.
Although Stuart's instructions were to see the Managing Editor, the
young fellow who came out to see what he wanted, brought him up to the
City Editor's desk. The latter looked up quickly.
"Are you the boy Dinville cabled about?"
"Yes, sir," the boy answered. Here, though the City Editor was ten
times more commanding a personality than the vice-consul, the boy felt
more at ease.
"Ever do any reporting?"
"No, sir."
"What's this story? Just the main facts!"
"Are you Mr. ----" the boy mentioned the name of the Managing Editor.
"I'll act for him," said the City Editor promptly.
Stuart's square chin went out.
"I came up to see him personally," he answered.
The City Editor knew men.
"That's the way to get an interview, my son," he said. "All right, I'll
take you in to the Chief. If things don't go your way, come and see me
before you go. I might try you on space, just to see how you shape.
Dinville generally knows what he's talking about."
Stuart thanked him, and very gratefully, for he realized that the curt
manner was merely that of an excessively busy man with a thousand things
on his mind. A moment later, he found himself in the shut-in office of
the Managing Editor.
"You are a youngster," he said with a cordial smile, emphasizing the
verb, and shaking hands with the boy. "Well, that's the time to begin.
Now, Lad, I've time enough to hear all that you've got to say that is
important, and I haven't a second to listen to any frills. Tell
everything that you think you have a right to tell and begin at the
beginning."
During the voyage from Havana, Stuart had rehearsed this scene. He did
not want to make the same mistake that he had made with the vice-consul,
and he told his story as clearly as he could, bearing in mind the "Who,"
"What," "Why," "When" and "Where" of Dinville's advice.
The Managing Editor nodded approvingly.
"I think," he said reflectively, "you may develop the news sense. Of
course, you've told a good deal of stuff which is quite immaterial, and,
likely enough, some of the good bits you've left out. That's to be
expected. It takes a great many years of training to make a first-class
reporter.
"Now, let me see if I can guess a little nearer to the truth of this
plot than you did.
"You say that the only three phrases you can be sure that you heard were
'Mole St. Nicholas,' 'naval base' and 'Panama.' That isn't much. Yet I
think it is fairly clear, at that. The Mole St. Nicholas is a harbor in
the north of Haiti which would make a wonderful naval base--in fact,
there has already been some underground talk about it--and such a naval
base would be mighty close to the Panama Canal. Suppose we start with
the theory that this is what your conspirator chaps have in mind.
"Now, my boy, we have to find out some explanation for the meeting in so
remote a place as the Citadel. Those three men wouldn't have gone to
all that trouble and risked all that chance of being discovered and
exposed unless there were some astonishingly important reasons. What can
these be? Well, if we are right in thinking that a naval base is what
these fellows are after, it is sure that they would need a hinterland of
country behind it. The Mole St. Nicholas, as I remember, is at the end
of a peninsula formed by a range of mountains, the key to which is La
Ferrière. So, to make themselves safe, they would need to control both
at the same time. Hence the necessity of knowing exactly the defensive
position of the Citadel. How does that sound to you?"
"I'd never thought of it, sir," said Stuart, "but the way you put it,
just must be right. I was an idiot not to think of it myself."
"Age and experience count for something, Youngster," said the Managing
Editor, smiling. "Don't start off by thinking that you ought to know as
much as trained men."
Stuart flushed at the rebuke, for he saw that it was just.
"Now," continued the Editor, pursuing his train of thought, "we have to
consider the personalities of the conspirators. You'll find, Stuart, if
you go into newspaper work, that one of the first things to do in any
big story, is to estimate, as closely as you can, the character of the
men or women who are acting in it. Newspaper work doesn't deal with cold
facts, like science, but with humanity, and humans act in queer ways,
sometimes. A good reporter has got to be a bit of a detective and a good
deal of a psychologist. He's got to have an idea how the cat is going to
jump, in order to catch him on the jump.
"Now, so far, we know that the conspirators are at least three in
number. There may be more, but we know of three. One is a Haitian negro
politician. One is a Cuban, who, from your description, seems to be a
large-scale crook. One is an Englishman, and, in your judgment, he is of
a different type from the other two. Yet the fact that he seems to
possess an agent on the eastern shore of Cuba--which, don't forget,
faces the Mole St. Nicholas--seems to suggest that he's deep in the
plot."
He puffed his pipe for a moment or two, and then continued,
"Now, there are two powerful forces working underground in the West
Indies. One is the Spanish and negro combination, which desires to shake
off all the British, French and Dutch possessions, and to create a
Creole Empire of the Islands. The other is an English plan, to weld all
the British islands in the West Indies into a single Confederation and
to buy as many of the smaller isles from France and Holland as may seem
possible. Both are hostile to the extension of American power in the
Gulf of Mexico. Possibly, some European power is back of this plot. A
foreign naval base in the Mole St. Nicholas would be a menace to us,
and one on which Washington would not look very kindly.
"So you see, Youngster, if such a thing as this were possible, it would
be a big story, and one that ought to be followed up very closely."
"That's what Dinville seemed to think, sir," interposed the boy, "and I
told him I didn't have the money."
"Nor have you the experience," added the Editor, dryly. "Money isn't any
good, if you don't know how to use it."
He pondered for a moment.
"I can't buy the information from you," he said, "because, so far, the
story isn't in shape to use, and I don't know when I will be able to use
it. Yet I do want to have an option on the first scoop on the story. You
know what a scoop is?"
"No, sir."
"A 'scoop' or a 'beat' means that one paper gets hold of a big story
before any other paper has it. It is like a journalistic triumph, if you
like, and a paper which gets 'scoops,' by that very fact, shows itself
more wide awake than its competitors.
"Now, see here, Stuart. Suppose I agree to pay you a thousand dollars
for the exclusive rights to all that you find out about the story, at
what time it is ready for publication, and that I agree to put that
thousand dollars to your account for you to draw on for expenses. How
about that?"
Stuart was taken aback. He fairly stuttered,
"Why--sir, I--I----"
The Editor smiled at the boy's excited delight.
"You agree?"
"Oh, yes, sir!"
There was no mistaking the enthusiasm of the response.
"Very good. Then, in addition to that, I'll pass the word that you're to
be put on the list for correspondence stuff. I'm not playing any
favorites, you understand! Whatever you send in will be used or thrown
out, according to its merits. And you'll be paid at the regular space
rates, six dollars a column. All I promise is that you shall have a look
in."
"But that's--that's great!"
"It's just a chance to show what you can do. If there's any stuff in you
at all, here is an opportunity for you to become a high-grade newspaper
man."
"Then I'm really on the staff!" cried the boy, "I'm really and truly a
journalist?"
The Managing Editor nodded.
"Yes, if you like the word," he said, "make good, and you'll be really
and truly a journalist."