MICKY
Michael O'Byrn, picturesquely Irish, so his name appeared on the
payroll, but from the cases to the press room they called him Micky.
Mike would have been a misfit, for its tang suggests a burly,
bull-necked son of Erin with fists like hams and a brogue of gravy-like
thickness, a boisterous, beefy, big-hearted broth of a boy of blows and
budge. Micky had the Irish heart, but he was short on fists and beef and
possessed the mere ghost of a brogue. Besides, O'Byrn's pseudonym
suggests juvenility, and Micky's four and twenty years, with their
palpable vicissitudes, had not robbed him of that saving grace. Indeed,
on meeting him, light-hearted and laughter-loving as he was in youth,
your imagination would experience little effort in leaping a long leap
into futurity to behold him a generation on, white-polled and with the
olden freckles faded in his wrinkled face; still the laugh on his lips,
the light of quizzical humor in his blue eyes. Glad he would always be,
because there would always bubble in his heart the fountain of eternal
youth.
The newspaper spirit had its embodiment in Micky O'Byrn, the tattered
knight of the road whose first story electrified the city editor of the
Courier. The spirit shone out of the portals of the twinkling Irish
eyes, eternally questioning. It reconnoitred the field from the bridge
of the nose that twitched with eagerness at the scent of a story, as a
pointer snuffs grouse. Within the mouth, that was always distended with
an ingratiating smile, dwelt in amity those heavenly twins, guile and
blarney. They served as forceful means to the eternal end of
news-seeking, and they were backed by ramparts of cheerful impudence
that flanked the whole freckled face. The chin was round, but a bump
peered forth that bespoke tenacity. He ordinarily displayed a guileless
expression that hid an unfathomed depth of resource. Once on the trail,
he could never be turned away. When one route to information failed, he
had a dozen others in readiness, leading by devious paths to the desired
end.
O'Byrn's appearance, when he had selected and donned his new ready-made
suit, rakish derby and vociferating shirt, was decidedly tracky. This
transformation occurred soon after he joined the Courier's staff. The
suit was checked in a pattern which cried aloud to heaven, the new
crimson tie adding its insistent clamor. The derby was done off in a
delicate drab. As for shoes, he selected tan oxfords with red ties. The
ensemble, to use a word that found much favor with Micky, "jibed"
harmoniously with his thick fell of lurid hair and his staring freckles.
In dress, as in all else, Micky was a pronounced radical.
Micky entered upon his service for the Courier with a vim which
abundantly realized his promise to "make good" if given the chance. In
him energy was wedded with tenacity. He had an inexhaustible fund of
subtle resource, an ingratiating impudence. Altogether, he was well
adapted to his strenuous trade, the trade that sifts out so much of
chaff and leaves so little wheat--and finally withers the wheat till it
follows the chaff. Micky had a positive genius for coping with
obstacles. If he could not "sidestep" them he climbed over, crawled
under or wriggled through them. Harkins steered him up against nearly
everything in those first few days and he never fell down. Harkins began
to grow self-complacent regarding his discernment. He had discovered
this pearl, or to put it more literally, this speckled ruby of
journalism. As a matter of fact, the ruby had discovered himself, but
Harkins had helped. He was entitled to congratulate himself, for the new
arrival was amply demonstrating his services to be valuable.
Micky had been with the Courier a fortnight. The voice of his new
apparel had been heard on the land and also on the waters. For only the
previous day he had boarded a tug steaming out to the quarantine
station, casually absorbed a mine of information without the suicidal
flashing of a notebook and scooped the field with a harrowing chapter of
abuses by those in power. His prestige was increased. A little bird
slyly twittered in his ear that they had started him low in the wage
line. He would better strike for more while the iron was hot, for it was
like to cool quickly in this uncertain calling.
He pondered over the matter, his feet reposing on his desk, a red-eyed
cigar stub in the corner of his mouth. It was midnight. He had handed in
a warm political column, happened upon by accident that evening. He was
always stumbling upon such accidents, that spelled spice for the reader
in the morning.
Micky ceased ruminating, with a mental vow to strike 'em next day. He
rose, yawned, stretched himself and strolled over to the sporting
editor's desk. O'Byrn sank into an adjoining chair as his neighbor
administered the finishing touches to an intercollegiate field meet of
that afternoon.
"How 're ye, Fatty?" inquired Micky amiably, prodding his co-laborer in
the ample excuse for his nickname.
"Fine 'nd dandy, Irish," replied the rotund Stearns rather absently, as
he pensively rubbed his prodded abdomen. "Say, Irish," he burst out in
an odd breathless way--Fatty's fits were a joke in the office and
startling to newcomers--"good hammer throw, that. Fell short two feet,
though." He shoved a written sheet over to Micky.
Micky had jumped in his chair at the onslaught, spilling cigar ashes
over his noisy shirt bosom. "Short of what?" he demanded with sarcasm,
blowing the ashes into Stearns' rubicund face. "Fatty, have you got 'em
again?"
"Got nothin'," retorted Fatty, rubbing an ashy eye. "They'll never beat
it, never," he murmured, more to himself than to Micky, with a slow
shake of his fat head. "Not on your pajamas! They can't touch him."
"Cut it out, Fatty," exhorted Micky with concern. "Quit the pill cookin'
stunt or it'll land you in the dip-house for sure. Why, you spit when
you talk now! Of whom are you dreaming?"
Fatty came back to earth. "That's so, you weren't here then," he
vouchsafed pityingly.
"When?" retorted Micky pugnaciously. "When wasn't I here?"
"Three years ago," replied Stearns, the tremolo of a tender memory
throbbing in his tone.
"And if I wasn't here," demanded Micky, unmollified, "who was, you sofa
pillow?"
The sofa pillow, like most such, was good natured. He grinned
forgivingly at the freckled features opposite him.
"Dick Glenwood was!" he answered with firm finality. "Yes 'r! And when
he got through there was nothin' else. The rest of 'em were hangin' on
the clothes line. It was three years ago, Speckles, and I was helpin' do
the intercollegiate meet for the News. Cubbin' it then, you know. All
the colleges, Hale, Pittston and the rest were there. I knew Dick; best
man Hale ever had, bar none. Knew what was comin'. Came from the same
town as I did. Brought up together; he's licked me more than once," with
pardonable pride. "Came out just as I expected and he scooped
everything. It was his last appearance, graduation year, big rep. Had to
make good and he did, won everything in sight. That is, everything he
went into, and he was in everything worth while. Made some records that
stand today. And that hammer throw! Say," gurgled Fatty, his face
apoplectic, "that man Myers came the closest to it today of any meet
since then, and he's got two feet comin' to touch it!"
"Dick Glenwood," mused Dicky. "I've heard the name around the office."
"And why not?" exploded Stearns. His little eyes, lurking beneath folds
of fat, peeled like round agate marbles. "Why, man, don't you know?"
"Know what?" snapped O'Byrn, reaching for a convenient paper-weight.
"Now, Fatty!" poising the weapon.
"Know he works here, of course," replied Stearns, viewing the weight
apprehensively. "Say, Irish, don't talk to me! You'd better come out of
it yourself."
"Works here?" repeated Micky, putting down the weight. "I haven't seen
him."
"On his vacation," explained Fatty. "Expect him back tomorrow. My last
whack at this stunt."
"So he does sports," observed Micky, taking a fresh cigar from Stearns'
vest pocket. "I thought you did 'em right along."
"Me?" exploded Fatty, in incredulous oblivion of slaughtered grammar.
His fat face expressed ludicrous amaze at the impression. "Why, man,
he's the best sporting writer in town or anywhere else! I'm just
supplyin'. Ordinarily I do odds and ends. I've done everything but time.
Sometimes, when we're specially busy, I act as his assistant. He got me
my job here when the News fired me."
Fatty was nothing if not ingenuous. Micky did not try to hide his grin,
for it would make no difference with Fatty.
"Why, yes, I've read of that fellow," assented Micky, transferring a
generous portion of the contents of Stearns' match box to his own
pocket. "So he went into this rotten business, did he?"
"Why, yes, he's stuck on it," explained Fatty. "You see he's got money."
"Got money!" echoed Micky amazedly. "Gee whiz! then why--? Excuse me,
Fatty, I'm asleep at the switch for fair."
"I don't know," floundered Fatty helplessly, "but anyway, his father's
got money. But Dick likes this business just the same. Been at it since
he left college."
"Then it is because he's got money, or his father has," agreed Micky. "I
couldn't see it before, but you have made it very clear, Fatty. It's
because he's got money or his father has. How stupid of me to be wingin'
on that proposition! But if he didn't have money, or his father didn't,
and he was doing this for a living like the rest of us instead of for
the fun of it, he'd say to the devil with it, like the rest of us--and
probably keep right at it, like the rest of us." In which words Micky
gave utterance to a philosophic, universal truth.
The voice of the city editor broke in upon the conference. "Say,
Stearns," it called, "where's that meet?"
"Most done, Mr. Harkins," responded Fatty in a panic, diving into his
copy like a greased swimmer off the side of a yacht.
"O'Byrn," called Harkins. "Here's word of a row down at Goldberg's
saloon on Ash street, pretty serious. Thuggery. Slide down and get it
quietly. You know they don't like the looks of notebooks around there,"
with a grim laugh.
So Micky, whose memory was his notebook and a wonderfully accurate one
when caution and cunning were demanded, hurried to the elevator.