WHETHER I should go East or West suddenly became a question with me. I
had the feeling that I might do better in Detroit or some point west of
Chicago, only the nearness of such cities as Cleveland, Buffalo,
Pittsburgh and those farther east deterred me; the cost of reaching them
was small, and all the while I should be moving toward my brother in New
York. And so, after making inquiry at the office of the _Bee_ for a
possible opening and finding none, and learning from several newspaper
men that Detroit was not considered a live journalistic town, I decided
to travel eastward, and bought a ticket to Cleveland.
Riding in sight of the tumbling waves of Lake Erie, I was taken back in
thought to my days in Chicago and all those who had already dropped out
of my life forever. What a queer, haphazard, disconnected thing this
living was! Where should I be tomorrow, what doing—the next year—the
year after that? Should I ever have any money, any standing, any
friends? So I tortured myself. Arriving in Cleveland at the close of a
smoky gray afternoon, I left my bag at the station and sought a room,
then walked out to see what I should see. I knew no one. Not a friend
anywhere within five hundred miles. My sole resource my little skill as
a newspaper worker. Buying the afternoon and morning papers, I examined
them with care, copying down their editorial room addresses, then betook
me to a small beanery for food.
The next morning I was up early, determined to see as much as I could,
to visit the offices of the afternoon papers before noon, then to look
in upon the city editors of the two or three morning papers. The latter
proved not very friendly and there appeared to be no opening anywhere.
But I determined to remain here for a few days studying the city as a
city and visiting the same editors each day or as often as they would
endure me. If nothing came of it within a week, and no telegram came
from my friend H—— in Toledo calling me back, I proposed to move on; to
which city I had not as yet made up my mind.
The thing that interested me most about Cleveland then was that it was
so raw, dark, dirty, smoky, and yet possessed of one thing: force,
raucous, clattering, semi-intelligent force. America was then so new
industrially, in the furnace stage of its existence. Everything was in
the making: fortunes, art, social and commercial life. The most
impressive things were its rich men, their homes, factories, clubs,
office buildings and institutions of commerce and pleasure generally;
and this was as true of Cleveland as of any other city in America.
Indeed the thing which held my attention, after I had been in Cleveland
a day or two and had established myself in a somber room in a somber
neighborhood once occupied by the very rich, were those great and new
residences in Euclid Avenue, with wide lawns and iron or stone statues
of stags and dogs and deer, which were occupied by such rich men as John
D. Rockefeller, Tom Johnson, and Henry M. Flagler. Rockefeller only a
year or two before had given millions to revivify the almost defunct
University of Chicago, then a small Baptist college, and was accordingly
being hailed as one of the richest men of America. He and his satellites
and confreres were already casting a luster over Cleveland. They were
all living here in Euclid Avenue, and I was interested to look up their
homes, envying them their wealth of course and wishing that I were
famous or a member of a wealthy family, and that I might some day meet
one of the beautiful girls I thought must be here and have her fall in
love with and make me rich. Physically or artistically or materially,
there was nothing to see but business: a few large hotels, like those of
every American city, and these few great houses. Add a few theaters and
commonplace churches. All American cities and all the inhabitants were
busy with but one thing: commerce. They ate, drank and slept trade. In
my wanderings I found a huge steel works and a world of low, smoky,
pathetic little hovels about it. Although I was not as yet given to
reasoning about the profound delusion of equality under democracy, this
evidence of the little brain toiling for the big one struck me with
great force and produced a good deal of speculative thought later on.
The paper with which I was eventually connected was the Cleveland
_Leader_, which represented all that was conservative in the local life.
Wandering into its office on the second or third day of my stay, I was
met at the desk of the city editor by a small, boyish-looking person of
a ferret-like countenance, who wanted to know what I was after. I told
him, and he said there was nothing, but on hearing of the papers with
which I had been connected and the nature of the work I had done he
suggested that possibly I might be able to do something for the Sunday
edition. The Sunday editor proved to be a tall, melancholy man with sad
eyes, a sallow face, sunken cheeks, narrow shoulders and a general air
of weariness and depression.
“What is it, now, you want?” he asked slowly, looking up from his musty
roll-top desk.
“Your city editor suggested that possibly you might have some Sunday
work for me to do. I’ve had experience in this line in Chicago and St.
Louis.”
“Yes,” he said not asking me to sit down. “Well, now, what do you think
you could write about?”
This was a poser. Being new to the city I had not thought of any
particular thing, and could not at this moment. I told him this.
“There’s one thing you might write about if you could. Did you ever hear
of a new-style grain-boat they are putting on the Lakes called——”
“Turtle-back?” I interrupted.
“Turtle-back?” went on the editor indifferently. “Well, there’s one here
now in the harbor. It’s the first one to come here. Do you think you
could get up something on that?”
“I’m sure I could. I’d like to try. Do you use pictures?”
“You might get a photo or two; we could have drawings made from them.”
I started for the door, eager to be about this, when he said: “We don’t
pay very much: three dollars a column.”
That was discouraging, but I was filled with the joy of doing something.
On my way out I stopped at the business office and bought a copy of the
last Sunday issue, which proved to be a poor makeshift composed of a
half dozen articles on local enterprises and illustrated with a few
crude drawings. I read one or two of them, and then looked up my
waterfront boat. I found it tied up at a dock adjoining an immense
railroad yard and near an imposing grain elevator. Finding nobody about,
I nosed out the bookkeeper of the grain elevator, who told me that the
captain of the boat had gone to the company’s local office in a nearby
street. I hastened to the place, and there found a bluff old lake
captain in blue, short, stout, ruddy, coarse, who volunteered, almost
with a “Heigh!” and a “Ho!” to tell me something about it.
“I think I ought to know a little something about ’em—I sailed the first
one that was ever sailed out of the port of Chicago.”
I listened with open ears. I caught a disjointed story of plans and
specifications, Sault Ste. Marie, the pine woods of Northern Michigan,
the vast grain business of Chicago and other lake ports, early
navigation on the lakes, the theory of a bilge keel and a turtle-back
top, and all strung together with numerous “y’sees” and “so nows.” I
made notes, on backs of envelopes, scraps of paper, and finally on a pad
furnished me by the generous bookkeeper. I carried my notes back to the
paper.
The Sunday editor was out. I waited patiently until half-past four, and
then, the light fading, gave up the idea of going with a photographer to
the boat. I went to a faded green baize-covered table and began to write
my story. I had no sooner done a paragraph or two than the Sunday editor
returned, bringing with him an atmosphere of lassitude and indifference.
I went to him to explain what I had done.
“Well, write it up, write it up. We’ll see,” and he turned away to his
papers.
I labored hard at my story, and by seven or eight o’clock had ground out
two thousand words of description which had more of the bluff old
captain in it than of the boat. The Sunday editor took it when I was
through, and shoved it into a pigeon-hole, telling me to call in a day
or two and he would let me know. I thought this strange. It seemed to me
that if I were working for a Sunday paper I should work every day. I
called the next day, but Mr. Loomis had not read it. The next day he
said the story was well enough written, though very long. “You don’t
want to write so loosely. Stick to your facts closer.”
This day I suggested a subject of my own, “the beauty of some of the new
suburbs,” but he frowned at this as offering a lot of free advertising
to real estate men who ought to be made to pay. Then I proposed an
article on the magnificence of Euclid Avenue, which was turned down as
old. I then spoke of a great steel works which was but then coming into
the city, but as this offered great opportunity to all the papers he
thought poorly of it. He compromised a day or two later by allowing me
to write up a chicken-farm which lay outside the city.
Of course this made a poor showing for me at the cashier’s desk. At the
end of the second week I was allowed to put in a bill for seven dollars
and a half. I had not realized that I was wasting so much time. I
appealed to all the editors again for a regular staff position, but was
told there was no opening. It began to look as if I should have to leave
Cleveland soon, and I wondered where I should go next—Buffalo or
Pittsburgh, both equally near.
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