Why he chose Buffalo Paul Anderson never knew, unless perhaps it
had more newspapers than Bay City, Michigan, and because his ticket
expired in the vicinity of Buffalo. For that matter, why he should
have given up an easy job as the mate of a tugboat to enter the
tortuous paths of journalism the young man did not know, and, lacking
the introspective faculty, he did not stop to analyze his motives. So
far as he could discover he had felt the call to higher endeavor, and
just naturally had heeded it. Such things as practical experience and
educational equipment were but empty words to him, for he was young
and hopeful, and the world is kind at twenty-one.
He had hoped to enter his chosen field with some financial backing,
and to that end, when the desire to try his hand at literature had
struck him, he had bought an interest in a smoke-consumer which a
fireman on another tugboat had patented. In partnership with the
inventor he had installed one of the devices beneath a sawmill boiler
as an experiment. Although the thing consumed smoke surprisingly well,
it likewise unharnessed such an amazing army of heat-units that it
melted the crown-sheet of the boiler; whereupon the sawmill men, being
singularly coarse and unimaginative fellows, set upon the patentee and
his partner with ash-rakes, draw-bars, and other ordinary, unpatented
implements; a lumberjack beat hollowly upon their ribs with a peavy,
and that night young Anderson sickened of smoke-consumers, harked anew
to the call of journalism, and hiked, arriving in Buffalo with seven
dollars and fifty cents to the good.
For seven dollars, counted out in advance, he chartered a furnished
room for a week, the same carrying with it a meal at each end of the
day, which left in Anderson's possession a superfluity of fifty cents
to be spent in any extravagance he might choose.
Next day he bought a copy of each newspaper and, carefully scanning
them, selected the one upon which to bestow his reportorial gifts.
This done, he weighed anchor and steamed through the town in search of
the office. Walking in upon the city editor of _The Intelligencer_, he
gazed with benevolent approval upon that busy gentleman's broad back.
He liked the place, the office suited him, and he decided to have his
desk placed over by the window.
After a time the editor wheeled, displaying a young, smooth, fat face,
out of which peered gray-blue eyes with pin-point pupils.
"Well?" he queried.
"Here I am," said Anderson.
"So it appears. What do you want?"
"Work."
"What kind?"
"Newspapering."
"What can you do?"
"Anything."
"Well, well!" cried the editor. "You don't look much like a newspaper
man."
"I'm not one--yet. But I'm going to be."
"Where have you worked?"
"Nowhere! You see, I'm really a playwright."
The editor's face showed a bit of interest. "Playwright, eh? Anderson!
Anderson!" he mused. "Don't recall the name."
"No," said Paul; "I've never written any plays yet, but I'm going
to. That's why I want to sort of begin here and get the hang of this
writing game."
A boy entered with some proofs at that moment and tossed them upon
the table, distracting the attention of the newspaper man. The latter
wheeled back to his work and spoke curtly over his shoulder.
"I'm not running a school of journalism. Good-by."
"Maybe you'd like me to do a little space work--?"
"I'd never like you. Get out. I'm busy."
Anderson retired gracefully, jingling his scanty handful of nickels
and dimes, and a half-hour later thrust himself boldly in upon another
editor, but with no better result. He made the rounds of all the
offices; although invariably rebuffed he became more firmly convinced
than ever that journalism was his designated sphere.
That night after dinner he retired to his room with the evening
papers, wedged a chair against his bed, and, hoisting his feet upon
the wash-stand, absorbed the news of the day. It was ineffably sweet
and satisfying to be thus identified with the profession of letters,
and it was immeasurably more dignified than "tugging" on the Saginaw
River. Once he had schooled himself in the tricks of writing, he
decided he would step to higher things than newspaper work, but for
the present it was well to ground himself firmly in the rudiments of
the craft.
In going through the papers he noted one topic which interested him, a
"similar mystery" story on the second page. From what he could gather,
he judged that much space had already been given to it; for now,
inasmuch as no solution offered, the item was dying slowly, the major
portion of each article being devoted to a rehash of similar unsolved
mysteries.
Anderson read that the body of the golden-haired girl still lay at the
Morgue, unidentified. Bit by bit he pieced together the lean story
that she was a suicide and that both the police and the press had
failed in their efforts to unearth the least particle of information
regarding her. In spite of her remarkable beauty and certain unusual
circumstances connected with her death investigation had led nowhere.
On the following day Anderson again walked into the editorial-rooms
of _The Intelligencer_ and greeted the smooth, fat-faced occupant
thereof.
"Anything doing yet?" he inquired.
"Not yet," said the newspaper man, with a trace of annoyance in his
voice. As the applicant moved out he halted him at the door with the
words: "Oh! Wait!"