THE fact that I had gained the notice of a man as important as
McCullagh, a man about whom a contemporaneous poet had written a poem,
was almost more than I could stand. I walked on air. Yet the next
morning, returning to work, I found myself listed for only “Hotels” and
“Heard in the Corridors,” my usual tasks, and was depressed. Why not
great tasks always? Why not noble hours always? Yet once I had recovered
from this I walked about the downtown streets convulsively digging my
fingers into my palms and shaking myself with delight as I thought of
Saturday, Sunday and Monday. That was something worth talking about. Now
I was a real newspaper man. I had beaten the whole town, and in a new
city, a city strange to me!
Having practically nothing to do and my excitement cooling some, I
returned to the art department this same day to report on what had
happened. By now I was so set up that I could scarcely conceal my
delight and told both volubly, not only about my raise in salary but
also that I had been given a twenty-dollar bill by McCullagh himself—an
amazing thing, of course. This last was received with mingled feelings
by the department: McCord was pleased, of course, but Dick naturally was
inclined to be glum. He was conscious of the fact that his drawings were
not good, and McCord had been twitting him about them. Dick admitted it
frankly, saying that he had not been able to collect himself. “You know
I can’t do those things very well and I shouldn’t have been sent out on
it. That’s Mitchell for you!” Perhaps it angered him to think that he
should have been so unfortunate at the very time that I should have been
so signally rewarded; anyhow he did not show anything save a generous
side to me at the time although latterly I felt that it was the
beginning of a renewal of that slight hostility based on his original
opposition to me. He complimented me, saying: “You’ve done it this time.
I’m glad you’ve made a hit, old man.”
That night, however, I was not invited to his room, as I had hoped I
should be, although he and Peter went off somewhere—to his room, as I
assumed. I applied myself instead to “Heard in the Corridors.” Then the
days settled down into their old routine for me—petty assignments, minor
contrasts between one thing and another. Only one thing held me up, and
that was that Hazard now urged me to do a novel with him, a thing which
flattered me so much that I felt my career as a great writer was at
hand. For had he not done a novel already? I considered it seriously for
a few days, arguing the details of the plot with him at the office and
after hours, but it came to nothing. Plays rather than novels, as I
fancied for some reason, were more in my line, and poems—things which I
thought easier to do. Since writing that first poem a month or so before
I was busy now from time to time scribbling down the most mediocre
jingles relative to my depressions and dreams, and imaging them to be
great verse. Truly, I thought I was to be a great poet, one of the very
greatest, and so nothing else really mattered for the time being.
Weren’t poets always lone and lorn, as I was?
It was about this time too that, having received the gift of twenty and
the raise of five, I began to array myself in manner so ultra-smart, as
I thought, but fantastic, really, that I grieve to think that I should
ever have been such a fool. Yet to tell the truth, I do not know whether
I do or not. A foolish boyhood is as delightful as any. I had now moved
into Tenth Street, and fortunately or unfortunately for me (fortunately,
I now think) a change in the personnel of the _Globe’s_ editorial staff
occurred which had a direct bearing upon my ambitions. A man by the name
of Carmichael who did the dramatics on the paper had been called to a
better position in Chicago, and the position he had occupied here was
therefore temporarily vacant. Hazard was the logical man for the place
and should have had it because he had held this position before. He was
older and a much better critic. But I, as may be imagined, was in a very
appropriate mood for this, having recently been thinking of writing a
play, and besides, I was crazy for advancement of any kind. Accordingly
the moment I heard of it I was on the alert, eager to make a plea for
myself and yet not dreaming that I should ever get it. My sole
qualification, as I see it now, was that I was an ardent admirer of the
stage and one who, because of his dramatic instincts (as I conceived
mine to be), ought to make a good enough critic. I did not know that I
was neither old nor cold nor experienced enough to do justice to the art
of any one. Yet I should add in all fairness that for the work here
required—to write a little two-stick announcement of each new play,
mostly favorable, and to prepare a weekly announcement of all the new
performances—I was perhaps not so poorly equipped. At any rate, my
recent triumph had given me such an excellent opinion of myself, had
made me think that I stood so well in the eyes of Mr. McCullagh, that I
decided to try for it. It might not mean any more salary, but think of
the honor of it! Dramatic Editor of the _Globe-Democrat_ of St. Louis!
Ha!... I decided to try.
There were two drawbacks to this position, as I learned later: one was
that although I might be dramatic editor I should still be under the
domination of Mr. Tobias Mitchell, who ruled this department; the other
was that I should have to do general reporting along with this other
work, a thing which irritated me very much and took much of the savor of
the task away. The department was not deemed important enough to give
any one man complete control of it. It seemed a poor sort of thing to
try for, once I learned of this, but still there would be the fact that
I could still say I was a dramatic editor. It would give me free
entrance to the theaters also.
Consequently I began to wonder how I should go about getting it.
Mitchell was so obviously opposed to me that I knew it would be useless
to appeal to him. McCullagh might give it to me, but how appeal to him?
I thought of asking him direct, but that would be going over Mitchell’s
head, and he would never forgive me for that, I was sure. I debated for
a day or two, and then decided, since my principal relations had been
with Mr. McCullagh, that I would go to him direct. Why not? He had been
very kind to me, had sent for me. Let Mitchell be angry if he would. If
I made good he could not hurt me.
I began to lay my plans or rather to screw up my courage to the point
where I could force myself to go and see Mr. McCullagh. He was such a
chill and distant figure. At the same time I felt that this man who was
the object of so much reverence was one of the loneliest persons
imaginable. He was not married. Day after day he came to this office
alone, sat alone, ate alone, went home alone, for he had no friends
apparently to whom he would condescend to unbend. This touched me. He
was too big, too lonely.
This realization drew me sympathetically toward him and made me imagine,
if you please, that he ought to like me. Was I not his protégé? Had he
not brought me here? Instinctively I felt that I was one who could
appreciate him, one whom he might secretly like. The only trouble was
that he was old and famous, whereas I was a mere boy, but he would
understand that too.
The day after I had made up my mind I began to loiter about the long
corridor which led to his office, in the hope of encountering him
accidentally. I had often noticed him shouldering his way along the
marble wainscoting of this hall, his little Napoleonic frame cloaked in
a conventional overcoat, his broad, strong, intellectual face crowned by
a wide-brimmed derby hat which he wore low over his eyes. Invariably he
was smoking a short fat cigar, and always looked very solemn, even
forbidding. However, having made up my mind, I lay in wait for him one
morning, determined to see him, and walking restlessly to the empty
telegraph room which lay at the other end of the hall from his office
and then back, but keeping as close as I could to one door or another in
order to be able to disappear quietly in case my courage failed me. Yet
so determined was I to see him that I had come down early, before any of
the others, in order that he should not slip in ahead of me and so rob
me of this seemingly accidental encounter.
At about eleven he arrived. I was on one of my return trips from the
telegraph room when I heard the elevator click and dodged into the city
room only to reappear in time to meet him, ostensibly on my way to the
toilet. He gave me but one sage glance, then stared straight ahead.
At sight of him I lost my courage. Arriving exactly opposite him,
however, I halted, controlled by a reckless, eager impulse.
“Mr. McCullagh,” I said without further ado, “I want to know if you
won’t make me dramatic editor. I hear that Mr. Carmichael has resigned
and the position is open. I thought maybe you might give it to me.” I
flushed and hesitated.
“I will,” he replied simply and gruffly. “You’re dramatic editor. Tell
Mr. Mitchell to let you be it.”
I started to thank him but the stocky little figure moved indifferently
away. I had only time to say, “I’m very much obliged” before he was
gone.
I returned to the city editorial room tingling to the fingertips. To
think that I should have been made dramatic editor, and so quickly, in
such an offhand, easy way! This great man’s consideration for me was
certainly portentous, I thought. Plainly he liked me, else why should he
do this? If only I could now bring myself seriously to this great labor
what might I not aspire to? Dramatic Editor of the _Globe-Democrat_ of
the great city of St. Louis, and at the age of twenty-one—well, now,
that was something, by George! And this great man liked me. He really
did. He knew me at sight, honored my request, and would no doubt, if I
behaved myself, make a great newspaper man of me. It was something to be
the favorite of a great editor-in-chief by jing—a very great thing
indeed.
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