Mr. Nestor Hurd, our "feature" editor, was in a bad humor. We all knew
he was, and everybody knew why, except Mr. Nestor Hurd himself. He
thought it was because he had not a competent writer on his whole
dash-blinged staff, and he was explaining this to space in words that
stung like active gnats. Really it was because his wife had just
called at his office and drawn his month's salary in advance to go to
Atlantic City.
Over the little partition that separated his private office from the
square pen where his reporters had their desks Mr. Hurd's words flew
and lit upon us. Occasionally we heard the murmur of Mr. Morris's
voice, patting the air like a soothing hand; and at last our chief got
tired and stopped, and an office boy came into the outer room and said
he wanted to see me.
I went in with steady knees. I was no longer afraid of Mr. Hurd. I had
been on the _Searchlight_ a whole week, and I had written one big
"story" and three small ones, and they had all been printed. I knew my
style was improving every day--growing more mature. I had dropped a
great many amateur expressions, and I had learned to stop when I
reached the end of my story instead of going right on. Besides, I was
no longer the newest of the "cub reporters." The latest one had been
taken on that morning--a scared-looking girl who told me in a
trembling voice that she had to write a special column every day for
women. It was plain that she had not studied life as we girls had in
the convent. She made me feel a thousand years old instead of only
eighteen. I had received so much advice during the week that some of
it was spilling over, and I freely and gladly gave the surplus to her.
I had a desk, too, by this time, in a corner near a window where I
could look out on City Hall Park and see the newsboys stealing baths
in the fountain. And I was going to be a nun in three years, so who
cared, anyway? I went to Mr. Hurd with my head high and the light of
confidence in my eyes.
"'S that?" remarked Mr. Hurd, when he heard my soft footfalls
approaching his desk. He was too busy to look up and see. He was
bending over a great heap of newspaper clippings, and the veins bulged
out on his brow from the violence of his mental efforts. Mr. Morris,
the thin young editor who had a desk near his, told him it was Miss
Iverson. Mr. Morris had a muscular bulge on each jaw-bone, which Mr.
Gibson had told me was caused by the strain of keeping back the things
he wanted to say to Mr. Hurd. Mr. Hurd twisted the right corner of
his mouth at me, which was his way of showing that he knew that the
person he was talking to stood at his right side.
"'S Iverson," he began (he hadn't time to say Miss Iverson), "got 'ny
money?"
I thought he wanted to borrow some. I had seen a great deal of
borrowing going on during the week; everybody's money seemed to belong
to everybody else. I was glad to let him have it, of course, but a
little surprised. I told him that I had some money, for when I left
home papa had given me--
He interrupted me rudely. "Don't want to know how much papa gave you,"
he snapped. "Want to know where 'tis."