WHAT the senator had told me was true. The deciding conference was on,
and I determined to hang about the corridors of the Richelieu until it
was over. The secretary, whom I found closeted with others (not
newspaper men) in a room on the second floor, was good enough to see me
when I mentioned Senator McEntee’s name, and told me to return at
six-thirty, when he was sure the conference would be over and a general
statement be issued to the press. If I wished, I might come back at
five-thirty. This dampened my joy in the thought that I had something
exclusive, though I was later cheered by the thought that I had probably
saved my paper from defeat anyhow for we were too poor to belong to the
general news service. As a matter of fact, my early information was a
cause of wonder in the office, the political man himself coming down
late in the night to find out how I had learned so soon. I spoke of my
friend Senator McEntee as though I had known him for years. The
political man merely looked at me and said: “Well, you ought to get
along in politics on one of the papers, if nowhere else.”
The capture of this one fact, as I rather felt at the time, was my
making in this newspaper office and hence in the newspaper world at
large, in so far as I ever was made.
At five-thirty that afternoon I was on hand, and, true to his word, the
secretary outlined exactly what conclusions the conference had reached.
Afterward he brought out a type-written statement and read from it such
facts as he wished me to have. Cleveland was to be nominated. Another
man, Adlai Stevenson of Illinois, of whom I had never heard, was to be
nominated for Vice-President. There were other details, so confusing
that I could scarcely grasp them, but I made some notes and flew to the
office and tried to write out all I had heard. I know now that I made a
very bad job of it, but Maxwell worked so hard and so cheerfully that he
saved me. From one source and another he confirmed or modified my
statements, wrote an intelligent introduction and turned it in.
“You’re one of the damnedest crack-brained loons I ever saw,” he said at
one place, cutting out a great slice of my stuff, “but you seem to know
how to get the news just the same, and you’re going to be able to write.
If I could just keep you under my thumb for four or five weeks I think I
could make something out of you.”
At this I ventured to lay one hand over his shoulder in an affectionate
and yet appealing way, but he looked up frowningly and said: “Cut the
gentle con work, Theodore. I know you. You’re just like all other
newspaper men, or will be: grateful when things are coming your way. If
I were out of a job or in your position you’d do just like all the
others: pass me up. I know you better than you know yourself. Life is a
God-damned stinking, treacherous game, and nine hundred and ninety-nine
men out of every thousand are bastards. I don’t know why I do this for
you,” and he cut some more of my fine writing, “but I like you. I don’t
expect to get anything back. I never do. People always trim me when I
want anything. There’s nobody home if I’m knocking. But I’m such a
God-damned fool that I like to do it. But don’t think I’m not on, or
that I’m a genial ass that can be worked by every Tom, Dick and Harry.”
And after visiting me with that fat superior smile he went on working. I
stared, nervous, restless, resentful, sorrowful, trying to justify
myself to life and to him.
“If I had a real chance,” I said, “I would soon show you.”
The convention opened its sessions the next day, and because of my
seeming cleverness I was given a front seat in the press-stand, where I
could hear all speeches, observe the crowd, trade ideas with the best
newspaper men in the city and the country. In a day, if you will believe
it, and in spite of the fact that I was getting only fifteen dollars a
week, my stock had risen so that, in this one office at least, I was
looked upon as a newspaper man of rare talent, an extraordinarily bright
boy sure to carve out a future for himself, one to be made friends with
and helped. Here in this press-stand I was now being coached by one
newspaper man and another in the intricacies of convention life. I was
introduced to two other members of our staff who were supposed to be
experienced men, both of them small, clever, practical-minded
individuals well adapted to the work in hand. One of them, Harry L.
Dunlap, followed my errant fortunes for years, securing a place through
me in St. Louis and rising finally to be the confidential adviser of one
of our Presidents, William Howard Taft—a not very remarkable President
to be adviser to at that. The other, a small brown-suited soul, Brady by
name, came into my life for a very little while and then went, I know
not where.
But this convention, how it thrilled me! To be tossed into the vortex of
national politics at a time when the country was seething over the
possible resuscitation of the old Democratic party to strength and power
was something like living. I listened to the speeches, those dully
conceived flights and word gymnastics and pyrotechnics whereby backwoods
statesmen, district leaders and personality-followers seek to foist upon
the attention of the country their own personalities as well as those of
the individuals whom they admire. Although it was generally known that
Cleveland was to be nominated (the money power of America having fixed
upon him) and it was useless to name any one else, still as many as ten
different “statesmen” great leaders, saviors were put in nomination.
Each man so mentioned was the beau ideal of a nation’s dream of a
leader, a statesman, a patriot, lover of liberty and of the people. This
in itself was a liberal education and slowly but surely opened my eyes.
I watched with amazement this love of fanfare and noise, the way in
which various delegations and individual followers loved to shout and
walk up and down waving banners and blowing horns. Different States or
cities had sent large delegations, New York a marching club two thousand
strong, all of whom had seats in this hall, and all were plainly
instructed to yell and demonstrate at the mention of a given name.
The one thing I heard which seemed rather important at the time,
beautiful, because of a man’s voice and gestures, was a speech by Bourke
Cochran, exhorting the convention to nominate his candidate, David
Bennett Hill, and save the party from defeat. Indeed his speech, until
later I heard William Jennings Bryan, seemed to me the best I had ever
heard, clear, sonorous, forcible, sensible. He had something to say and
he said it with art and seeming conviction. He had presence too, a sort
of Herculean, animal-like effrontery. He made his audience sit up and
pay attention to him, when as a matter of fact it was interested in
talking privately, one member to another. I tried to take notes of what
he was saying until one of my associates told me that the full minutes
of his speech could soon be secured from the shorthand reporters.
Being in this great hall cheek by jowl with the best of the Chicago
newspaper world thrilled me. “Now,” I said to myself, “I am truly a
newspaper man. If I can only get interesting things to write about, my
fortune is made.” At once, as the different forceful reporters of the
city were pointed out to me (George Ade, Finley Peter Dunne, “Charlie”
Seymour, Charles d’Almy), my neck swelled as does a dog’s when a rival
appears on the scene. Already, at mere sight of them, I was anxious to
try conclusions with them on some important mission and so see which of
us was the better man. Always, up to the early thirties, I was so human
as to conceive almost a deadly opposition to any one who even looked as
though he might be able to try conclusions with me in anything. At that
time, I was ready for a row, believing, now that I had got thus far,
that I was destined to become one of the greatest newspaper men that
ever lived!
But this convention brought me no additional glory. I did write a
flowery description of the thing as a whole, but only a portion of it
was used. I did get some details of committee work, which were probably
incorporated in the political man’s general summary. The next day,
Cleveland being nominated, interest fell off. Thousands packed their
bags and departed. I was used for a day or two about hotels gathering
one bit of news and another, but I could see that there was no import to
what I was doing and began to grow nervous lest I should be summarily
dropped. I spoke to Maxwell about it.
“Do you think they’ll drop me?” I asked.
“Not by a damned sight!” he replied contentiously. “You’ve earned a show
here; it’s been promised you; you’ve made good, and they ought to give
it to you. Don’t you say anything; just leave it to me. There’s going to
be a conference here tomorrow as to who’s to be dropped and who kept on,
and I’ll have my say then. You saved the day for us on that nomination
stuff, and that ought to get you a show. Leave it to me.”
The conference took place the next day and of the five men who had been
taken on to do extra work during the convention I and one other were the
only ones retained, and this at the expense of two former reporters
dropped. At that, I really believe I should have been sent off if it had
not been for Maxwell. He had been present during most of the
transactions concerning Mr. Gissel’s book and thought I deserved work on
that score alone, to say nothing of my subsequent efforts. I think he
disliked the little editorial writer very much. At any rate when this
conference began Maxwell, according to Dunlap who was there and reported
to me, sat back, a look of contented cynicism on his face not unlike
that of a fox about to devour a chicken. The names of several of the new
men were proposed as substitutes for the old ones when, not hearing mine
mentioned, he inquired:
“Well, what about Dreiser?”
“Well, what about him?” retorted Sullivan, the city editor. “He’s a good
man, but he lacks training. These other fellows are experienced.”
“I thought you and Gissel sort of agreed to give him a show if he sold
that book for you?”
“No, I didn’t,” said Sullivan. “I only promised to give him a tryout
around convention time. I’ve done that.”
“But he’s the best man on the staff today,” insisted Maxwell. “He
brought in the only piece of news worth having. He’s writing better
every day.”
He bristled, according to Dunlap, and Sullivan and Gissel, taking the
hint that the quarrel might be carried higher up or aired
inconveniently, changed their attitude completely.
“Oh, well,” said Sullivan genially, “let him come on. I’d just as lief
have him. He may pan out.”
And so on I came, at fifteen dollars a week, and thus my newspaper
career was begun in earnest.
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