BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE _HERALD_
I was seated on the edge of a table in the reporters' room--a place
wherein were rows of dusty old books and a number of ink-stained
tables, whereat reporters deciphered their "notes" and wrote their
"copy." Upon the begrimed, colour-washed walls were stuck quantities of
newspaper cuttings, dirty and yellow with tobacco-smoke, caricatures
from the illustrated Press, war-maps, and other pictorial memos which
one or other of the reporting staff desired to preserve. Over the
fireplace someone had pasted a religious text.
In that room men came and went. Some entered without a word, scribbled
half a dozen lines, flung the slip of paper, with his name written at
the top, into the basket--which would later on find its way to the
sub-editors--and left. Others sat busily writing with stubby pencils,
while still others, mostly clean-shaven youths, lit cigarettes,
gossiped, and congratulated themselves that they were "marked" in
the diary for some unimportant function, a society bazaar, a company
meeting, or a foundation-stone, which would set them free before four
in the afternoon.
With one of these, Boyd by name, a typical Pressman of the modern
school, I was chatting, waiting to see Macdonald, the chief reporter.
The latter came at last, a tall, thin-faced, black-haired, rather
sallow Scotsman of forty-five, in silk hat, frock-coat, and seedy
umbrella, without which he was never known to go forth even on the
brightest day. Besides being chief reporter of the _Evening Herald_, he
was chief of the staff in the "gallery" of the House of Commons. Then,
after concluding his work for the _Herald_ at 6.30 in the evening, he
remained in the "House," reporting its proceedings for the Exchange
Telegraph Company, supplying that service of news which one reads in
clubs and hotels. In the House he was known as the "tape-worm," because
he supplied the "tape" with news.
His manner was deliberate, his peculiarities many. A keen politician
and a clever journalist, he possessed a sense of dry humour and a fund
of quotation which rendered him a character in modern journalism. His
mind was a perfect dictionary of popular quotations in all sorts of
languages, and no matter what the occasion or topic of conversation,
"Mac," as we called him, always had a proverb or an apt quotation from
some dead-and-gone writer ready at hand.
This fount of quotation constantly overflowed into his reports, and the
sub-editors were constantly on the alert with blue pencil to cut out
such portions of what they irreverently termed "old Mac's gas." Some
went as far as to say that he had committed Bartlett's and Benham's
collections of quotations to memory; while among the staff it was
a well-known fact that one of old Mac's idiosyncrasies was to take
a shorthand note of everything he witnessed. Indeed, somebody once
found in the reporters' room a slip of paper on which he had noted in
shorthand every movement and trick of a troupe of acrobats performing
at the Empire.
"Well, Keene," he exclaimed, with his broad Scotch accent, as he
entered and glanced around at the several tables occupied by the men
under him, "what's the premium on murder this morning--eh?"
A laugh went round at this, for, as "The Murder-Monger," I was
constantly the butt of Mac's ready wit.
"Oh, we're dealing in sudden deaths to-day," I retorted. "Three of 'em
have just come up on the tape within ten minutes."
He had walked to his table, and was looking down the list of
engagements for that day written in the diary.
"Well," he went on, "we want some good story or other to-day. Things
are uncommonly quiet in London."
"Perhaps Marvin will get a decent Reuter or two later on--an earthquake
in Japan or a scrap in Central America, with a few hundreds killed."
"Or a railway disaster in the States--train wrecked and burned--English
passengers--and that sort of thing," I added. "Always good enough for
the contents bill."
"Yes. There's nothing much in London to-day--not even a divorce case
worth half a dozen lines," Mac said, with a sigh, hanging up his silk
hat on the peg.
"There ought to be something fresh to be got out of that Barnes
affair," a man remarked from the other corner of the room without
looking up from his blotting-pad.
"Ah, yes!" said Mac. "You're doing that, Keene, of course. How's it
going? Any arrest likely?"
"Not yet. Police entirely in the dark."
"But you'll do half a column of the latest details," Mac said. "Work
the story up for all it's worth. Give a few of your first-class
patent-leather theories as to the crime, or rub up an interview with
somebody."
"But there's nothing further to say at present," I remarked.
"Nothing further?" he cried. "Why, my dear Keene, the thing's good
enough for another week. It's a real sensation. You must get the
photographs of the murdered girl and of the other woman. Committed
suicide in the police-cell, didn't she! If it were me, I should
work up a story that she committed suicide because her life was
threatened--victim of a secret society. Anything about continental
secret societies always goes down with the public. Hint that she's
a princess, a duchess, or some foreign notability, and that the
government are taking steps to suppress the real facts. Oh, my dear
Keene, there's lots in that. If I were doing it I'd startle London for
the next six days," he added.
"With lies!" I remarked, laughing.
"Well, the truth would not be nearly so interesting," old Mac said, for
he was entirely unscrupulous when it came to telling a good "story."
Many a good mystery had he worked up from nothing. A bogus mystery
generally lasts about three days, because rival journals make inquiry
and discredit the exaggerated report.
In all journalistic "stories" the exhumation report is undoubtedly the
most telling. Unfortunately it cannot be often worked, but when it is
it never fails to attract. Hint at foul play and the exhumation of a
body, and you will have the world on the tenter-hooks of excitement.
Never does a suspicion of poison crop up without its attendant
journalistic prediction that the body of somebody else is to be exhumed.
I once worked this "wheeze" so entirely successfully that the Home
Office, believing that there was something in my theory, actually
ordered the body of a woman to be exhumed and the stomach analysed
for poison. This was done, but no poison was discovered, and, in
consequence, the _Herald_ very narrowly escaped paying heavy damages
for libel. Indeed, the man whom I had alleged to be a murderer entered
an action, but for some reason, to this day quite unaccountable,
suddenly dropped it.
While talking with Mac, a boy in an Eton suit entered with a message
from Sir Henry Neave, the founder and proprietor of the _Herald_,
asking me to go at once to his room, an order which I immediately
obeyed.
Sir Henry, known to all the staff as "the Chief," was as unapproachable
as the Prime Minister himself.
Through the office of a smart and handsome lady secretary, thence
through the apartment of the private secretary, admittance was gained
to a large, long, luxurious room with cosy easy-chairs, couches and
writing-tables, which had no semblance to a business office. Big silver
bowls--presents from the staff--were filled with fresh flowers; upon
the thick carpet one's footsteps fell noiselessly, and everywhere was
displayed an artistic taste which was sufficient index to the character
of the man who, above all others, was the most successful journalist
the world had ever known.
About Sir Henry Neave there was nothing of the blatant millionaire.
Though enormous wealth had come to him since the days, not so long ago,
when he was a humble working journalist in Fleet Street; though he
possessed a fine house in Park Lane, a big place in the country, one at
the seaside, and a pretty villa on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice,
yet his great success had never spoilt him.
The whole staff loved him. To them he was as one of themselves. He
would shout and condemn in unmeasured terms, and criticise the "get-up"
of one or other of his many journals with unequalled sarcasm. Yet next
moment he would say cheerily, "That's all--that's all I have to say. Go
away, my boy, and do better."
And the culprit would smile and go away, and do his level best in the
future.
As I opened the door I saw him lying back in his big saddle-bag chair
near the fireplace, smoking a cigarette and reading some proofs.
Fair-haired, clean-shaven and aged about thirty-five, his was a
countenance full of strong character and determination, a face which
once seen would never be forgotten--undeniably a face of genius.
In his dress he was nothing of a fop. Devoted to motoring, and one of
its pioneers in England, he spent all his spare time on one or other
of his fine cars, and invariably wore a tweed suit and a soft tennis
collar.
"Ah, Keene!" he exclaimed, in his quick, impetuous way. "Let me see.
Why did I send for you? Oh, I know!" he went on, looking up at me
and dropping the proofs on the floor at his side. "Of late, Keene,
I've been watching you. You've done a lot of real good work on the
'Evening,' and I've resolved to give you a better chance. Do you know
French?"
"I was at school in Rouen for three years."
"Good. Well, I've decided to put you on the _Daily Herald_, and give
you a chance abroad as special correspondent. I spoke to Wakeley last
night, and he thinks you can begin by doing some of the smaller things
on the Continent. Little will show you your way about at first. You can
consult Wakeley about your salary. Remember, we only want first-class
stories, and where those are concerned you need never spare expense. I
look upon you, Keene, as a coming man. Don't disappoint me. Go, my boy,
and do your best."
His words had caused my heart to leap. I was to become a special
correspondent and sign my articles in the _Daily Herald_! The post was
one of the plums of the journalistic profession.
"I can only promise you, Sir Henry, that I shall always have the
interests of the paper at heart. On the 'Evening' I've always done my
best, and shall certainly spare no effort to perform my duty in my new
post."
"I know that--I know that! Go to Wakeley, tell him that you are in
future on the staff of special correspondents. Tell him from me to send
you out on the next short trip. That's all," and he ended abruptly with
dismissal, as was his usual habit.
He was a man of remarkably quick decision. He never hesitated. Without
a moment's reflection he would decide matters involving the expenditure
of thousands, and would order a new paper to appear, or stop a
non-paying one, at a moment's notice.
The staff within that great building, with its hundreds of different
departments, was the best that had ever been gathered together to run
newspapers and periodicals. The gigantic organisation was unique, while
the huge printing-works, that swallowed up hundreds of miles of paper
daily, were the most up-to-date in all the world. And all was due to
his careful forethought and his knowledge of what the public really
required.
So many newspapers throughout the country did he control that he
could make or mar a Cabinet, while his political power was courted by
the Prime Minister himself, and his influence was such that he often
privately received "inspired" information from the highest quarters.
And yet with all this power and wealth Sir Henry Neave was just the
same as when, as Harry Neave, he had been glad enough to report
police-court cases and accept the princely sum of seven-and-sixpence.
Though a bad enemy, he never forgot his friends of old days, and the
life of many a broken-down Pressman was made happier and brighter by
the secret charity that came from his pocket.
Sir Henry had always been my friend. I had done my best, and the reward
he had given me was the greatest in his power. It would raise me from
mere murder-mongering to the highest rank in journalism--that of
special correspondent.
In future I was to become the cosmopolitan and constant traveller, and
my signed telegrams would be read the world over.
And with these thoughts I ascended in the lift to tell old Marvin that
I was no longer connected with the _Evening Herald_, and to send a line
in secret to Daisy acquainting her with my sudden good fortune.
A new vista of life spread itself out before me.