IT is entirely possible that, due to some physical or mental defect of
my own, I was in no way fitted to contemplate so huge and ruthless a
spectacle as New York then presented, or that I had too keen a
conception of it at any rate. After a few days of work here I came in
touch with several newspaper men from the West—a youth by the name of
Graves, another by the name of Elliott, both formerly of Chicago, and a
third individual who had once been in St. Louis, Wynne Thomas, brother
of the famous playwright, Augustus. All were working on this paper, two
of them in the same capacity as myself, the third a staff man. At night
we used to sit about doing the late watch and spin all sorts of
newspaper tales. These men had wandered from one place to another, and
had seen—heavens, what had they not seen! They were completely
disillusioned. Here, as in newspaper offices everywhere, one could hear
the most disconcerting tales of human depravity and cruelty. I think
that in the hours I spent with these men I learned as much about New
York and its difficulties and opportunities, its different social
strata, its outstanding figures social and political, as I might have
learned in months of reporting and reading. They seemed to know every
one likely to figure in the public eye. By degrees they introduced me to
others, and all confirmed the conclusions which I was reaching. New York
was difficult and revolting. The police and politicians were a menace;
vice was rampant; wealth was shamelessly showy, cold and brutal. In New
York the outsider or beginner had scarcely any chance at all, save as a
servant. The city was overrun with hungry, loafing men of all
descriptions, newspaper writers included.
After a few weeks of experimenting, however, I had no need of
confirmation from any source. An assignment or two having developed well
under my handling, and I having reported my success to the city editor,
I was allowed to begin to write it, then given another assignment and
told to turn my story over to the large gentleman with the gold-headed
cane. This infuriated and discouraged me, but I said nothing. I thought
it might be due to the city editor’s conviction, so far not disturbed by
any opportunity I had had, that I could not write.
But one night, a small item about a fight in a tenement house having
been given me to investigate, I went to the place in question and found
that it was a cheap beer-drinking brawl on the upper East Side which had
its origin in the objection of one neighbor to the noise made by
another. I constructed a ridiculous story of my own to the effect that
the first irritated neighbor was a musician who had been attempting at
midnight to construct a waltz, into which the snores, gurgles, moans and
gasps of his slumberous next-door neighbor would not fit. Becoming
irritated and unable by calls and knocking to arouse his friend and so
bring him to silence, he finally resorted to piano banging and
glass-breaking of such a terrible character as to arouse the entire
neighborhood and cause the sending in of a riot call by a policeman, who
thought that a tenement war had broken out. Result: broken heads and an
interesting parade to the nearest police station. Somewhere in the text
I used the phrase “sawing somnolent wood.”
Finding no one in charge of the city editor’s desk when I returned, I
handed my account to the night city editor. The next morning, lo and
behold, there it was on the first page consuming at least a fourth of a
column! To my further surprise and gratification, once the city editor
appeared I noticed a change of attitude in him. While waiting for an
assignment, I caught his eye on me, and finally he came over, paper in
hand, and pointing to the item said: “You wrote this, didn’t you?” I
began to think that I might have made a mistake in creating this bit of
news and that it had been investigated and found to be a fiction. “Yes,”
I replied. Instead of berating me he smiled and said: “Well, it’s rather
well done. I may be able to make a place for you after a while. I’ll see
if I can’t find an interesting story for you somewhere.”
And true to his word, he gave me another story on this order. In the
Hoffman House bar, one of the show-places of the city, there had been a
brawl the day before, a fight between a well-known society youth of
great wealth who owed the hotel money and would not pay as speedily as
it wished, and a manager or assistant manager who had sent him some form
of disturbing letter. All the details, as I discovered on reading the
item (which had been clipped from the _Herald_), had been fully covered
by that paper, and all that remained for me twenty-four hours later was
to visit the principals and extract some comments or additions to the
tale, which plainly I was expected to revamp in a humorous fashion.
As I have said, humor had never been wholly in my line, and in addition
I had by no means overcome my awe of the city and its imposing and
much-advertised “Four Hundred.” Now to be called upon to invade one of
its main hostelries and beard the irate and lofty manager in his den, to
say nothing of this young Vanderbilt or Goelet—well——I told myself that
when I reached this hotel the manager would doubtless take a very lofty
tone and refuse to discuss the matter—which was exactly what happened.
He was infuriated to think that he had been reported as fighting.
Similarly, should I succeed in finding this society youth’s apartment, I
should probably be snubbed or shunted off in some cavalier fashion—which
was exactly what happened. I was told that my Mr. X. was not there.
Then, as a conscientious newspaper man, I knew I should return to the
hotel and by cajolery or bribery see if I could not induce some
barkeeper or waiter who had witnessed the fight to describe some phase
of it that I might use.
But I was in no mood for this, and besides, I was afraid of these New
York waiters and managers and society people. Suppose they complained of
my tale and denounced me as a faker? I returned to the hotel, but its
onyx lobby and bar and its heavy rococo decorations and furniture took
my courage away. I lingered about but could not begin my inquiries, and
finally walked out. Then I went back to the apartment house in which my
youth lived, but still he was not in and I could extract no news from
the noble footman who kept the door. I did not see how I was to conjure
up humor from the facts in hand. Finally I dropped it as unworthy of me
and returned to the office. In doing so I had the feeling that I was
turning aside an item by which, had I chosen to fake, I could have
furthered myself. I knew now that what my city editor wanted was not
merely “accuracy, accuracy, accuracy,” but a kind of flair for the
ridiculous or the remarkable even though it had to be invented, so that
the pages of the paper, and life itself, might not seem so dull. Also I
realized that a more experienced man, one used to the ways of the city
and acquainted with its interesting and eccentric personalities, might
make something out of this and not come to grief; but not I. And so I
let it go, realizing that I was losing an excellent opportunity.
And I think that my city editor thought so too. When I returned and told
him that I could not find anything interestingly new in connection with
this he looked at me as much as to say, “Well, I’ll be damned!” and
threw the clipping on his desk. I am satisfied that if any reporter had
succeeded in uncovering any aspect of this case not previously used I
should have been dropped forthwith. As it turned out, however, nothing
more developed, and for a little time anyhow I was permitted to drag on
as before, but with no further favors.
One day, being given a part of a “badger” case to unravel, a man and
woman working together to divest a hotel man of a check for five
thousand dollars, and I having cajoled the lady in the case (then under
arrest) into making some interesting remarks as to her part in the
affair and badgering in general, I was not allowed to write it but had
to content myself with seeing my very good yarn incorporated in another
man’s story while I took “time.” Another day, having developed another
excellent tale of a runaway marriage, the girl being of a family of some
standing, I was not allowed to write it. I was beginning to see that I
was a hopeless failure as a reporter here.
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