THE MISSING COPY
Bud first showed Larry how to work the pneumatic or compressed-air
tube. Around it stood several other boys who seemed to be quite
busy. Now and then one would dash in with a bunch of paper, grab a
tube, stuff the copy in, and yank the lever over. A hissing, as the
imprisoned air rushed into the pipe, told that the copy was on its way
to the composing room.
“Where are those boys from; other papers?” asked Larry.
“Gosh, no!” exclaimed Bud. “No boy from another paper would dare come
in here; that is while he worked for another paper. We’d think he was
trying to get wind of some exclusive story we had. Those boys are from
the different departments. One carries copy from the state department,
another from the sporting room, and another from the telegraph desk.”
Then Bud briefly explained that there were several editors on the
paper. One took charge of all the news in the city, and this was Mr.
Emberg. Another handled all the foreign news that came in over the
telegraph. Still another took charge of all matters that happened in
the state outside of the city and the immediate surrounding territory.
Then there was the sporting editor, who looked after all such things as
football and baseball games, racing, wrestling, and so on. Each editor
had a separate room, and there were one or two boys in each department
to carry copy to the tube room, whence it was sent up to the printers.
“But our room’s the best,” finished Bud, with an air of conscious pride.
Larry was shown where the offices of the different editors were, so
that he would know where to go if sent with messages to them. He was
also taken to the composing room.
There he stood for a while bewildered by the noise and seeming
confusion. A score of typesetting machines were at work, clicking away
while the men sat at the keyboards, which were almost like those of
typewriters. Larry saw where the tubes with copy in them bounced from
the air pipe into a box. From that they were taken to a table by a boy,
whose face was liberally covered with printer’s ink.
There a man rapidly numbered them with a blue pencil, and gave the
sheets out to the compositors.
“Sometimes you have to come up here for proofs of a story,” Bud
explained. “Then go over to that man there,” pointing to a tall thin
individual, “and repeat whatever Mr. Emberg or whoever sends you, says.
You see there are several different kinds of type in the heads of a
story and each story is called according to the kind of a head it has.”
“I’m afraid I’ll never learn,” said Larry, who was beginning to feel
confused.
“Oh yes, you will. I’ll explain it all to you. You probably won’t have
to go for proofs for several days. You’ll only have to carry copy.”
They stayed up in the composing room for some time, and every second
Larry wondered more and more how out of so much seeming confusion any
order could ever come.
Boys with long galleys, like narrow brass pans that corresponded in
size to columns of the newspaper, and set full of type, were hurrying
with them to a big machine where they were placed on a flat table, and
a roller covered with ink passed over them. Then a boy placed a long
narrow slip of paper on the inky type, passed another roller over it,
and lifted off the paper.
“That’s what they calling pulling or taking a proof,” said Bud. “But
come on now, we’ll go back to the city room and rush copy. I guess
there’s some by this time.”
There was quite a bit, for a number of stories had been handed in by
the reporters, had been looked over by Mr. Emberg, his assistant, or
the copy readers, and were ready for the compositors. Peter had been
kept busy running back and forth and was in no gentle humor.
“I’ll fix you for this,” muttered Peter to Larry and Bud. “I’ll get
even for running off and letting me do all the work. You jest wait an’
see wot I do!”
He spoke in a low tone, for he did not want the city editor to hear.
“Cut it out,” advised Bud with a grin. “I was sent to show Larry about
the plant and you know it. Besides, if you try any of your tricks I
know something I can do.”
“What?” asked Peter.
“Who was smoking cigarettes?” asked Bud in a whisper.
“If you squeal on me I’ll--I’ll do you up brown,” threatened Peter.
“It will take two like you,” boasted Bud.
“Well, I can get somebody to help me,” sputtered Peter.
“Copy!” called Mr. Emberg at that instant, and, at a nod from Bud,
Larry sprang forward to carry it to the tube. It was his first actual
work in the newspaper office, and quite proud he felt as he put the
story in the case and sent it up the pipe.
From then on all three boys were kept busy, for as the morning wore
on several reporters came in with stories, long or short, that they
had gathered on their various assignments, and these were quickly
corrected and edited, and ready for the typesetters.
Back and forth, from the city room desk to the pneumatic tube, the
three boys ran. Larry noticed that Peter was in the sulks and that he
did not seem to care very much about doing the work. Once or twice he
lagged down the hall instead of hurrying back from the tube after more
copy as he should have done, once Mr. Emberg remarked sharply to him:
“Peter, if you don’t want to work here, there are lots of other boys I
can get.”
“My foot hurts me,” whined the boy, as he limped slightly.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” inquired the city editor. “If it is
very bad you can go home and come in to-morrow.”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as that,” replied Peter, fearing lest he should be
found out in his deceit. “I guess I can stand it.”
Meanwhile Larry was kept on the jump. He soon got the knack of his
duties and resolved to make himself as useful as possible. With this
in view he kept close watch on the desk, and, as soon as he saw Mr.
Emberg, the assistant city editor, or any of the readers, fold up copy,
preparatory to handing it to one of the boys, Larry hurried up without
waiting for the cry “Copy!”
“That’s the way to do it,” said Mr. Emberg encouragingly, as he
noticed Larry’s remarkable quickness.
“Don’t be so fresh,” muttered Peter on one of these occasions, as he
passed Larry in the long and deserted hall. “There’s no use rushin’ so,
and the union won’t stand for it. I’ll punch your head if you don’t
look out!”
“I’m going to do my work right, and I don’t care what you say!”
exclaimed Larry. “And if there’s any head punching to be done, I can do
my share!”
“Um,” grunted Peter. “I’ll get square with you all right!”
It was now noon, and the paper went to press for the first edition
shortly after one o’clock. So there was considerable excitement and
hurry in all the departments, to get the important news set up and
ready to be printed.
Reporters were hurrying in and out, the readers and editors were using
their pencils rapidly, correcting and changing copy, and the three boys
in the city room were kept on the jump all the time.
Shortly before one o’clock a reporter came in all out of breath.
“Man--killed--himself--in--the--Post Office just--now!” he gasped.
“Quick!” shouted Mr. Emberg. “We’ve only got ten minutes to catch the
edition. Write as fast as you can. Short paragraphs. Here, one of you
boys bring me the sheets as fast as Mr. Steifert finishes them.”
The reporter sat down to a typewriter, rapidly inserted a piece of
paper and began to click out copy so fast that Larry wondered how he
could see the keys.
“I’ll carry the sheets to Mr. Emberg,” said Bud to Larry, “and you get
ready to rush them to the tube.”
This was done. As soon as Mr. Steifert had one paragraph written he
pulled it from the machine and handed it to Bud, who ran with it to the
city editor. The latter quickly glanced at it, corrected one or two
slight errors, and passed it over to Larry, who fairly raced down the
hall.
When he came back another page was ready, and this was kept up until
the story was all upstairs. Then Mr. Emberg proceeded to write a head
for it and Larry carried that copy to the tube.
“Just made that in time,” said the city editor, as Larry came back.
“Now, Mr. Steifert, get ready a better and longer story for the next
edition. You can take a little more time.”
Matters became more quiet in the office after the first edition had
gone to press. There were to be two more editions, and there still
remained plenty of work to do. Once or twice Larry was sent to get
proofs from the composing room and luckily he made no errors.
It was getting on toward four o’clock when the last edition was getting
ready to close.
“Copy!” called Mr. Emberg, holding out a bunch of paper and not looking
up to see who answered his summons.
Larry ran and grabbed it and sped down the hall. Halfway down he was
met by Peter, who also had some papers in his hand.
“I’ll put that in the tube for you,” said Peter. “I’ve got some more to
go in.”
At first Larry hesitated. Then, thinking perhaps Peter wanted to make
up for his recent unkind remarks, Larry gave him the copy and returned
to the city room.
A little later the big presses began thundering in the sub-cellar, and
soon the first copies of the last edition were off and a boy brought
several to the city room.
“Here! What’s this?” cried Mr. Emberg suddenly, after a hasty glance
over the paper. “Where’s that story about Alderman Murphy?”
“I handed it to you,” said one of the reporters.
“I know you did, Reilly. I handled it and put a display head on it.
It went up in time, but it isn’t in. Who took that copy?” he asked,
turning to the three boys who stood to one side of the room. No one
answered for a second or two.
“It was written on yellow paper,” went on Mr. Emberg.
“I--I did,” replied Larry, wondering what was going to happen.
“What did you do with it?”
“I--I gave it to Peter,” faltered Larry.
“You did not!” cried the other office boy, in an angry voice.