His First Assignment
Tom Collins read again the inscription on the directory at the foot of thestairs:Room 36 City Editor and Reportersglanced again toward the elevator, again drew his letter of introductionfrom his pocket, and--again retreated to the doorway. Once more his hearthad failed him.The result of the impending interview with the city editor of theWashington Evening World meant so much to him that he feared to meet it.Another failure and--what? Surely not starvation. To a youth of nineteen,normally healthy and hopeful, the idea of starvation in a great city,surrounded by thousands of human beings, seems preposterous. And yet whenthe few coins yet remaining in his pocket were gone he would be absolutelyat the end of his resources; unless--unless fortune favored him in the nextfew minutes. He had tried every newspaper office in the city withdisheartening results; every office save this one. He reread, perhaps forthe twentieth time, the letter he held, then placed it back in its envelopewith a sigh. The words sounded so empty and perfunctory, the World wassuch a big paper, his own ignorance was so great, and--and he wasdiscouraged. However--He thrust the letter back into his pocket, jammed his cap resolutely ontohis head, and strode determinedly to the elevator."City editor," he announced gruffly.Room 36 seemed acres big to Tom as he closed the door behind him. Somedozen men and youths occupied the apartments and to the nearest of theseTom applied. He was not much over Tom's age and was busily engaged incutting a newspaper into shreds with a pair of extraordinarily largeshears. When interrupted he looked up carelessly but good naturedly andpointed to a far corner of the room."That's the city ed; the fellow with the glasses."Tom thanked him and went on.The man with the glasses took no notice of his approach but continued hiswriting, puffing the while on a very black briar pipe. He was apparentlyabout thirty-five years of age, had a fierce and bristling mustache, andrushed his pencil vindictively across the copy paper as though he werewriting the death sentence of his worst enemy."Well?"Tom started. The voice was as savage as the man's appearance, and Tom'sheart sank within him."What do you want?" The editor's forehead was a mass of wrinkles and hiseyes glared threateningly from behind his glasses. Tom found his voice andlaid the letter on the desk."Humph," said the editor. He read the short message and tossed it aside."Ever done newspaper work?" he asked."No, sir," Tom replied."Then what do you want to begin for?""To make a living.""Oh," sneered the editor, "thought perhaps you wanted to elevate the press.You're a college graduate, of course?""I went to college for a year and a half, sir; I had to leave then."The editor's face brightened."Did they throw you out?""No, I--I had no money left; my father died very suddenly, and--and so Ihad to leave.""Too bad; if you'd been fired there might have been some hope for you." Tomtried to detect a smile somewhere on the frowning face; there was none. "Soyou think you can do newspaper reporting, do you?""Yes, sir.""Of course you do! I never found a college boy yet that wasn't plumb surehe could start right in on fifteen minutes' notice and beat Horace Greeleyor old man Dana. It's so easy!""I don't think that," answered Tom, "but I think I could do reporting--after a day or two. I'm ignorant as to the exact duties of a reporter, butI can learn, and I can write English.""But can you find out what other reporters can't? Can you interview thelast new senator in town and make him tell you what he wouldn't haveprinted for a year's salary? Can you do that?" Tom hesitated; but he wasgaining courage, and the other's gibes were slowly arousing his resentment."If those things can be done by other fellows, I can do them.""Well, you've got confidence," acknowledged the editor, grudgingly. "But wedon't break new men in here on the World; we wait until they have learnedsomewhere else, then we offer them a better salary; those are our methods.You go to work on the Despatch or the Star, or somewhere, and when youprove that you can do as good work as three or four men on our staff you'llhear from us."The city editor went back to his pencil. Plainly the interview was at anend. Tom turned away. "Good day, sir," he muttered. There was a lump in histhroat and his hand, seeking refuge in his pocket, closed on the half dozencoins. He turned suddenly and faced the city editor again."Look here," he said doggedly, "I've got a right to better treatment thanyou have given me. I handed you a letter of introduction that ought to havea little weight, and--and even if it hasn't, it entitles me to commoncourtesy from you. I'm not a beggar asking for alms. All I want is a chanceto show that I can do your work decently. I don't even ask any pay, I--I--"Tom's words died away. After all, what was the use? He had his answer andthere could be no benefit gained from prolonging the interview. But thecity editor was looking at him curiously now."Here, hold on there," he commanded, and when Tom again faced him: "Ifyou'd brought me a letter from Queen Victoria or the Angel Gabriel you'dhave gotten the same treatment. I talk to an average of ten men like youevery day of my life; young chaps who don't know what a newspaper's runfor; who don't care, either. They think reporting or editing is a nice easyway to make a living, and so they come here expecting to fall into aposition. They don't get it. But when a fellow shows sense I give him achance. And I'll give you one. Hold on," he continued as Tom opened hismouth to thank him, "I'm not offering you a place; I'm not even giving youa fair deal."He paused and took a card from a drawer, scowling more than ever."Write your name there and send it up to Senator August at the HotelTorrence. If he sees you, interview him on the decision of last night'sconference; find out whether they agreed on a nominee. You read the papers?Then you'll know what we're after. Now there's your chance, just a barefighting chance; do you want it?" The card held the single line "For TheWashington Evening World." Tom put it in his pocket."I know how desperate the chance is, sir, and I'll take it. And--and thankyou.""All right. And remember that the last edition goes to press at fiveo'clock," he added grimly.As Tom passed out the youth by the railing had stopped cutting upnewspapers and was writing as though his very life depended upon it. Whenhe reached the street Tom remembered that he might have used the elevator."Senator August left ten minutes ago," said the hotel clerk affably as hecaught sight of the inscription on the card which Tom Collins held. "A newreporter," he added to himself."Left?" echoed Tom in dismay. "Where has he gone?""New York, I think. Went to the depot for the 2.20."Tom glanced at the clock. Another moment and he was boarding a passing car.He had six minutes to catch the 2.20. His chances of success were slim. Forthat matter, thought Tom, the whole undertaking was the merest forlornhope; not even the fighting chance that the city editor of the World hadcalled it. For supposing that he found Senator August and got speech withhim, was it likely that he would tell an inexperienced chap like Tom whatthe best reporters in Washington had failed to worm out of him?The Democratic National Convention to nominate a candidate for thepresidency was but a month away. On the preceding evening, in a little roomin the Hotel Torrence, Senator August, representing the sentiment of theEastern democracy, and Senator Goodman, possessing full power to act forhis party in the great West, had met to decide on a Democratic nominee.Dissension threatened. The East favored a man of moderate views on thesubject of currency reform; the West and the greater portion of the Southstood unanimous for a politician whose success in the coming battle wouldpresage the most radical of measures. Final disagreement between theDemocrats of East and West meant certain victory for the Republican Party.And to-day all the country was asking: Have the leaders agreed on anominee; if so, which one? Senator Groodman, as uncommunicative as astatue, was already speeding back to the far West; and Senator August,equally silent, was on his way home. The newspapers were hysterical intheir demands for information; all day the wires leading to Washington hadborne message after message imploring news, but only baseless rumors hadsped back. And Tom Collins, knowing all this, realized the hopelessness ofhis task.At the depot he left the car at a jump and dashed into the station. A trainon the further track was already crawling from the shed. There was no timefor inquiries. He ran for it and swung himself onto the platform of thePullman. A porter was just closing the vestibule door."Is Senator August on board?" gasped Tom. The porter didn't know. But heassured Tom that that was the train for New York and so the latter enteredthe Pullman. The car held seven men and an elderly lady. Tom's idea of asenator was a big man dressed in a black frock coat, a black string tie anda tall silk hat. But there was no one in sight attired in such fashion andTom paused at a loss. Perhaps it was chance that led him halfway down theaisle and caused him to question a military, middle-aged gentleman who worea quiet suit of gray tweeds and was deep in a magazine. The face thatlooked up was shrewd but kindly, albeit it frowned a little at theinterruption."I am Senator August," was the unexpected reply."Oh!" exclaimed Tom blankly. Then he pushed aside a small valise on theopposite seat and took its place. The frown on the senator's face grew."Reporter?" he asked laconically."Yes," answered Tom. "I'm from the Washington World. I just missed you atthe hotel so I took the liberty of following you to the train." Tom thoughtthat sounded pretty well and paused to see what impression it had created.The result was disappointing."Well?" asked the senator coldly."The World would like to know what decision was reached at last night'sconference, senator.""I don't doubt it," answered the senator dryly. "Look here," he continuedwith asperity, "I've refused to talk to at least two dozen reporters andcorrespondents to-day. The results of last night's conference will be madepublic by Senator Goodman and myself at the proper time and place; and notuntil then. And that is all that I can tell you.""But--" began Tom."Understand me, please; I will say nothing more on the subject.""Will you give me some idea as to when the proper time will be?" asked Tomrespectfully."No, I can't do that either. Perhaps to-morrow; perhaps not for severaldays.""Are you going to New York, sir?""I am on my way to my home in Massachusetts.""Thank you. Have you any objection to my accompanying you on the sametrain?" Senator August opened his eyes a little."Is that necessary? The announcement will be made to the Associated Pressand, unless I am mistaken, the World is a member of it.""Very true, sir, but I was assigned to get the result of the conference andI've got to do it--that is, if I can.""Very well, I have no objection to your traveling on the same train withme, just as long as you don't bother me. Will that do?""Yes, sir, thank you. I am sorry that I have troubled you.""You're what?" asked the other."Sorry to have troubled you, sir.""Hm; you're the first one to-day that has expressed such a feeling. Youmust be new at the business.""I am," answered Tom. "I've been a reporter only half an hour. In fact I'mnot certain that I am one at all.""How's that?" asked the senator, turning his magazine face down on the seatbeside him.And Tom told him. Told about his three weeks of dreary search for aposition, of his interview with the city editor of the Evening World, andof the forlorn hope upon which he was entered. And when he had finished hisstory, Senator August was no longer frowning; the boy's tale had interestedhim."Well, he did put you up against a hard task; doesn't seem to me to havebeen quite fair. He knew that every reporter had failed and he must haveknown that you would fail as well. Seems to have been merely a neat way ofgetting rid of you. What do you think?"Tom hesitated a moment."I don't think it was quite that. And, anyhow, I knew what I was doing, andso it was fair enough, I guess.""But surely you had no idea of success?""I ought not to have," answered Tom hesitatingly, "but I'm afraid I did."The senator looked out of the window and was silent for a moment while theexpress sped on through the afternoon sunlight. When he turned his facetoward Tom again he was smiling."Well, you appear to have pluck, my lad, and that is pretty certain to landyou somewhere in the end even if you miss it this time. I'm very sorry thatI am obliged to be the means of destroying your chance with the World;but I have no choice in the matter, I----""Tickets, please."Blank dismay overspread Tom's countenance as he looked up at the conductor."I--I haven't any.""Where do you want to go?"Tom put his hand into his pocket and brought out all his money; less thantwo dollars. He held it out to the gaze of the conductor."How far can I go for that?" he asked."Is that all you have?" asked the senator. Tom nodded. "All rightconductor; we'll arrange this; come around again later, will you?" Theconductor went on. Tom stared helplessly at his few coins and SenatorAugust looked smilingly at Tom."How about following me home?" he asked."I--I'd forgotten," stammered Tom."Well, never mind. I'll loan you enough to reach the first stop and toreturn to Washington. Nonsense," he continued, as Tom began a weakobjection, "I haven't offered to give it to you; you may repay it someday." He pressed a bill into the boy's hand. "At Blankville Junction youcan get a train back before long, I guess. Never mind that cold-bloodededitor on the World; try the other papers again; keep at it; that's whatI did; and it pays in the end. Hello, are we stopping here?"The train had slowed down and now it paused for an instant beside a littlebox of a station. Then it started on again and a train man appeared at thefar end of the car holding a buff envelope in his hand."Senator August in this car?" he asked.The telegram was delivered and its recipient, excusing himself to thesad-hearted youth on the opposite seat, read the contents hurriedly. Thenhe glanced queerly at Tom, while a little smile stole out from under theends of his grizzled mustache."You are lucky," he said. Tom looked a question, and the senator thrust themessage into his hands. "Read that," he said; "it is from my secretary inWashington." He pressed the electric button between the windows and waitedimpatiently for the porter. Tom was staring hard at the yellow sheet beforehim; he reread it slowly, carefully, that there might be no mistake. It wasas follows:"Senator Harrison M. August, "On train 36, Waverly, Md."Following telegram just received: 'Chicago, 8, 1.45 P.M. Have just learnedreliable source Republican managers using our silence regarding conferenceto advance W's candidacy in Middle West and have published report that wehave agreed on compromise candidate. If report goes undenied many voteswill be lost, especially in Iowa and Wisconsin. Advise immediatepublication of our statement to press. Answer Auditorium, Chicago.Goodman.' Have advised Goodman of delay in reaching you."Billings.""Do you understand what that means?" asked Senator August. Tom could onlynod; he was too astounded to speak. The senator handed a message to theporter. "Get that off as soon as we reach Baltimore and bring me a receiptfor it." Then he turned again to Tom and thrust the pad of Western Unionmessage blanks toward him."We reach Blankville Junction in eight minutes. Write what I dictate to youas fast as you can. You know shorthand? All the better."The senator leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he began tospeak, rapidly but distinctly, and Tom's pencil flew over the pages, whilethe train sped on toward the junction.The hands of the office clock pointed to twenty minutes after five when Tomreached the World building. There was no hesitancy now; he pushed openthe little gate and hurried toward the city editor, who had already placedhis hat on his head and was bundling up some papers to carry home. He metTom's advance with a frown."Well?" he asked coldly.For answer Tom placed a little package of copy before him."What's this?" he demanded. But there was no necessity for reply for he wasalready reading the sheets. Halfway through he paused and lifted a tube tohis mouth. "Brown? Say, Joe, get a plate ready for an extra in a hurry;about half a column of stuff going right up." Then he turned again to hisreading. At the end he gathered the copy together and placed it on hisdesk."Where'd you get this?""On the New York express.""What station?""I left the train at Blankville Junction."The city editor dated the copy with a big black pencil, ran three strokesthe length of each sheet, wrote a very long and startling head over it andthrust it into the hands of a waiting boy."Copy-cutter," he said. And as the boy sped off the editor turned to Tom."How'd you do it?" he asked, frowning tremendously.But the city editor's frowns no longer struck terror into Tom's heart, andhe told the story briefly, while his hearer puffed rapidly at his pipe.Only once was he interrupted."Hold on there," said the editor. "Are you certain he said he'd not giveout the statement again until he reached New York?""Quite certain," was the reply. Something almost resembling pleasureappeared on the city editor's face."He'll not get there until 8.30; too late for the evening papers. Thebiggest beat of the year, by George!" For a moment the glasses and thefrown were lost in a cloud of smoke. Then "Go on," he commanded.Tom finished his story in a few words; told how he had found a trainalready waiting at the Junction, how he had written out his copy on the wayback to Washington; and how, had it not been for a long delay just outsidethe city, he would have reached the office in time for the regular edition.And when he had finished he waited for a word of commendation. But nonecame. Instead, the city editor nodded his head once or twice, thoughtfully,frowningly, and said: "Well, you needn't wait around any longer; there'snothing else to be done."Tom arose, looking blankly at the speaker. Had he failed after all! Surelyhe was not being turned away? But the city editor's next words dispelledall doubt."We go to work on this paper at eight o'clock, Mr. Collins; and by eight Imean eight, and not ten minutes past. I can't have any man working for mewho cannot be prompt. You understand?"As Tom clattered happily downstairs a deep reverberation that shook thebuilding from top to bottom told him that the presses were already printingthe result of his first assignment.
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