DICK TAKES UP HIS PEN
Dick had no sooner ventured out on the street after dinner than
he encountered the news of Mrs. Cantwell's meeting with her husband.
But Dick did not linger long to discuss the matter. His pockets
now contained, in place of pennies, a few banknotes and many dimes,
pennies and nickels, amounting in all to thirty-six dollars.
He was headed for "The Blade" office to settle with Mr. Pollock.
"I think I can tell you a little story now, that may be worth
a paragraph or two," Dick announced after he had counted out the
money and had turned it over to the editor.
"You played a little joke on your new and not wholly popular principal,
didn't you?" Mr. Pollock asked, his eyes twinkling.
"Yes; has the thing reached you already?"
"I don't know the whole story of the joke," Mr. Pollock replied,
"but perhaps I can tell you one side of it that you don't know."
Thereupon the editor described Mr. Cantwell's visit to the bank.
"Now, I've got a still further side to the story," Dick continued,
and repeated the story told by the freshmen of how Mrs. Cantwell
also had carried the money to the bank, and then, still carrying
it, had waited for her husband at the school gateway.
Editor Pollock leaned back, laughing until the tears rolled down
his cheeks.
"I'm sorry for the good lady's discomfiture," explained the editor,
presently. "But the whole story is very, very funny."
"Now, I guess you know all the facts," finished Dick Prescott,
rising.
"Yes, but I haven't a single reporter about." Then, after a pause,
"See here, Prescott, why couldn't you write this up for me?"
"I?" repeated Dick, astonished. "I never wrote a line for publication
in my life."
"Everyone who does, has to make a start some time," replied Mr.
Pollock. "And I believe you could write it up all right, too.
See here, Prescott, just go over to that desk. There's a stack
of copy paper there. Write it briefly and crisply, and, for delicacy's
sake, leave out all that relates to Mrs. Cantwell. No use in
dragging a woman into a hazing scrape."
Dick went over to the desk, picking up a pen. For the fist three
or four minutes he sat staring at the paper, the desk, the floor,
the wall and the street door. But Mr. Pollock paid no heed to
him. Then, finally, Dick began to write. As he wrote a grin
came to his face. That grin broadened as he wrote on. At last
he took the pages over to Mr. Pollock.
"I don't suppose that's what you want," he said, his face very
red, "but the main facts are all there."
Laying down his own pen Mr. Pollock read rapidly but thoughtfully.
The editor began to laugh again. Then he laid down the last
sheet.
"Prescott, that's well done. There's a good reporter lurking
somewhere inside of you."
Thrusting one hand down into a pocket Mr. Pollock brought out
a half-dollar, which he tendered to Dick.
"What am I to do with this?" asked the young sophomore.
"Anything you please," replied the editor. "The money's for you."
"For me?" gasped Dick.
"Yes, of course. Didn't you write this yarn for me? Of course
'The Blade' is only a country daily, and our space rates are not
high. But see here, Prescott, I'll pay you a dollar a column
for anything you write for us that possesses local interest enough
to warrant our printing it. Now, while going to the High School,
why can't you turn reporter in your spare time, and earn a little
pocket money?"
Again Dick gasped. He had never thought of himself as a budding
young journalist. Yet, as Mr. Pollock inquired, "Why not?" Why
not, indeed!
"Well, how do you think you'd like to work for us?" asked Mr.
Pollock, after a pause. "Of course you would not leave the High
School. You would not even neglect your studies in the least.
But a young man who knows almost everybody in Gridley, and who
goes about town as much as you do, ought to be able to pick up
quite a lot of newsy stuff."
"I wonder if I could make a reporter out of myself," Dick pondered.
"The way to answer that question is to try," replied Mr. Pollock.
"For myself, I think that, with some training, you'd make a good
reporter. By the way, Prescott, have you planned on what you
mean to be when you're through school?"
"Why, it isn't settled yet," Dick replied slowly. "Father and
mother hope to be able to send me further than the High School,
and so they've suggested that I wait until I'm fairly well through
before I decide on what I want to be. Then, if it's anything
that a college course would help me to, they'll try to provide
it."
"What would you like most of all in the world to be?" inquired
the editor of "The Blade."
"A soldier!" replied young Prescott, with great promptness and
emphasis.
"Hm! The soldier's trade is rather dull these days," replied
the editor. "We're becoming a peaceful people, and the arbitrator's
word does the work that the sword used to do."
"This country has been in several wars," argued Dick, "and will
be in others yet to come. In times of peace a soldier's duty
is to fit himself for the war time that is to come. Oh, I believe
there's plenty, always, that an American soldier ought to be doing."
"Perhaps. But newspaper work is the next best thing to soldiering,
anyway. Prescott, my boy, the reporter of to-day is the descendant
of the old free-lance soldier of fortune. It takes a lot of nerve
to be a reporter, sometimes, and to do one's work just as it
should be done. The reporter's life is almost as full of adventure
as the soldier's. And there are no 'peace times' for the reporter.
He never knows when his style of 'war' will break out. But I
must get back to my work. Are you going to try to bring us in
good matter at a dollar a column?"
"Yes, I am, thank you," Dick replied, unhesitatingly, now.
"Good," nodded Mr. Pollock, opening one of the smaller drawers
over his desk. "Here's something you can put on and wear."
He held out to the boy an oblong little piece of metal, gold plated.
"It's a badge such as 'The Blade' reporters wear, and has the
paper's name on it," continued the editor. "You can pin it on
your vest."
"I guess I'd better leave that part out for a while," laughed
Dick, drawing back. "The fellows at school wouldn't do a thing
to me if they caught me wearing a reporter's badge."
"Oh, just as you please about that," nodded Mr. Pollock, tossing
the badge back into the drawer. "But don't forget to bring us
in something good, Prescott."
"I won't forget, Mr. Pollock."
As Dick went down the street, whistling blithely, he kept his
hand in his pocket on the half-dollar. He had had much more money
with him a little while before, but that was to pay to some one
else. This half-dollar was wholly his own money, and, with the
prospect it carried of earning more, the High School boy was delighted.
Pocket money had never been plentiful with young Prescott. The
new opportunity filled him with jubilation.
It was not long, however, before a new thought struck him. He
went straight to his parents' bookstore, where he found his mother
alone, Mr. Prescott being out on business.
To his mother Dick quickly related his new good fortune. Mrs.
Prescott's face and words both expressed her pleasure.
"At first, mother, I didn't think of anything but pocket money,"
Dick admitted. "Then my head got to work a bit. It has struck
me that if I can make a little money each week by writing for
'The Blade,' I can pay you at least a bit of the money that you
and Dad have to spend to keep me going."
"I am glad you thought of that," replied Mrs. Prescott, patting
her boy's hand. "But we shan't look to you to do anything of
the sort. Your father and I are not rich, but we have managed
all along to keep you going, and I think we can do it for a while
longer. Whatever money you can earn, Richard, must be your own.
We shall take none of it. But I trust you will learn how to
handle your own money wisely. _That_ is one of the most valuable
lessons to be learned in life."
To his chums, when he saw them later in the afternoon, Dick said
nothing of Mr. Pollock's request. The young soph thought it better
to wait a while, and see how he got along at amateur reporting
before he let anyone else into the secret.
But late that afternoon Dick ran into a matter of interest and
took it to "The Blade" office.
"That's all right," nodded Mr. Pollock, after looking over Dick's
"copy." "Glad to see you have started in, my boy. Now, I won't
pay you for this on the nail. Wait until Saturday morning, cutting
all that you have printed out of the 'The Blade.' Paste all the
items together, end on end, and bring them to me. That is what
reporters call a 'space string.' Bring your 'string' to me every
Saturday afternoon. We'll measure it up with you and settle."
Dick hurried away, content. He even found that evening that he
could study with more interest, now that he found he had a financial
place in life.
In the morning Gridley read and laughed over Dick's item about
the High School hoax. But there was one man who saw it at his
breakfast table, and who went into a white heat of rage at once.
That man was Abner Cantwell, the principal.
He was still at white heat when he started for the High School;
though, warned by prudence, he tried to keep his temper down.
Nevertheless, there was fire in Mr. Cantwell's eyes when he
rang the bell to bring the student body to attention to begin
the morning's work.