But you are in great danger of getting hit up here.
Oh, no, they wouldnt hit me. See how scared they are if I only just look at them.
Billings had an open note-book in his hand, and Myles saw with amazement that whenever he fixed his eyes upon any particular person or group in the crowd, and pretended to be taking notes in his book, these persons immediately turned their backs or slunk away.
Well, that beats all! he exclaimed. What do you do and how do you do it?
I dont do any thing, only look at em. They think, though, that I am drawing their pictures for one of the illustrated papers, and they dont want to be spotted by having their likenesses printed.
A few minutes later the mob had been pretty thoroughly dispersed, and Billings said:
Well, this shindy is about finished, so lets get back to head-quarters and grind out a little copy.
As they walked back together Myles opinion of Billings courage was very different from what it had been a short time before, and he said to himself:
I believe the little chap is made up of pure grit after all.
At the police-station Billings coolly took possession of the inspectors room and writing-table. He seated Myles at one end of this, and, providing him with pen and paper, told him to write out the story of his recent experience. At the same time he threw off his coat and began to write his own report with such rapidity that Myles marvelled at it.
By the time the latter had laboriously thought out and written four sheets of copy, which contained all that he considered worth relating of what he had seen, Billings had covered twenty or more sheets that lay, strewn like autumn leaves, on the floor about his chair. As Myles pen ceased its scratching Billings looked up and asked:
Got through?
Yes, I believe so.
Well, you have been short and sweet. Ive just begun; but then Im on space, you know, and that makes all the difference. By the way, I wish you would run up to Williamsburg and look around a bit. I understand theres to be a secret meeting of strikers held over there somewhere, and we ought to know something about it.
Myles started at once, only stopping on the way to buy himself a hat, and, as it was late, to get a bit of something to eat at a miserable restaurant, which was the only one he could find. Then for hours he walked the streets of that part of Brooklyn known as Williamsburg, knowing no more than the man in the moon where to look for the secret meeting. He inquired of all the street-car men he could find, in every saloon he saw, and of several policemen, but could get no information concerning it. Finally, late at night, worn out and discouraged, he concluded that no meeting had been held, and returned to the place where he had left Billings, only to find that the young man had gone back to New York some hours before.
It was after midnight when Myles reached the Phonograph office and reported to the night city editor, who sat at the desk used by Mr. Haxall in the daytime, that he had been unsuccessful in his attempt to discover the meeting. He was about to add that he did not believe any had been held, when the busy night man interrupted him with:
Oh, thats all right. Billings got what there was of it and turned it in an hour ago.
After waiting in the bustling place a few minutes longer, a stranger among strangers, Myles concluded that he was only in the way and had better go home. When he reached the tiny room that was now the only place he could call his own, he was physically and mentally exhausted by the hardest days work he had ever done.
Myles was awakened the next morning by a knock at his door and Van Cleefs voice inquiring if he were not ready to go out for breakfast.
Excuse me for waking you, said Van Cleef, as Myles appeared, but I was so anxious to hear of your first days experience that I hated to leave the house without seeing you. How did you get on? What did Mr. Haxall say about the dress-suit? And what was your first assignment?
Oh, I got on after a fashion. He said it was all right, and my first assignment was to go out and buy some sandwiches for his lunch.
Honestly?
Yes, honestly, that was the very first thing he gave me to do.
Well, you have begun with the rudiments of reporting. Was that all you had to do?
Oh, no; I was sent over to Brooklyn to fight a mob.
What do you mean?
Just what I say. Look at my clothes, and this new hat that I had to buy to replace the one lost in the fight, if you dont believe me. Here Myles glanced ruefully at his coat and trousers, that still bore tokens of their recent hard usage. Then buying a Phonograph from a newsboy, and pointing to the leading article on the first page, which was a three-column story of the street-car strike, he said:
Theres my job.
That! exclaimed Van Cleef, incredulously, as he noted the heading and length of the article. Why, I thought Billings was doing that strike.
Oh, yes, replied Myles, carelessly, there was a little chap named Billings over there who worked with me.
A little chap named Billings who worked with me. Ho, ho! ha, ha! shouted Van Cleef. If that isnt good! I only wish Old Bills, as the boys call him, could hear you say that. Really, though, how much did you write of this?
Well, I really did write something; but I as really cant find a word of it in this article. I declare, though, if here isnt an account of that secret meeting in Williamsburg that I walked my feet off looking for and couldnt find. How do you suppose the paper got hold of it?
Why, I suppose some Associated-Press man stumbled across it and sent it in. Then, of course, it was turned over to Billings, as he had charge of all the strike matter, and he worked it into his story. But where did you look for that meeting?
Everywhere.
Did you go to the police-stations and inquire of the sergeants, or to the head-quarters of any of the trades-unions?
Why, no, answered Myles, reflectively. I never thought of those places.
Oh, well, said Van Cleef, consolingly, you cant learn it all in a day; but youll soon get the hang of news-gathering. I am sorry, though, that your screed didnt get printed.
There is an account here of running that car over the line, giving the names of the officers who were on board and of the driver, but it never occurred to me to get those, nor is the rest of it at all as I wrote it. It is a great deal better than mine was.
Probably Billings took your stuff and worked it over, suggested the other. You see it all counts as space for him, and he thought, as you are on salary, it wouldnt make any difference to you.
What do you mean by space? asked Myles. I heard the word several times yesterday, but didnt understand it.
Why, most New York reporters are space men that is, they do not receive a regular sum of money every week, without regard to how much or how little they have in the paper, but are paid so much per column for what they get printed. The Phonograph and one or two other papers, for instance, pay eight dollars per column, while others pay seven, six, and so on down to three dollars per column.
Do the space men generally make more than fifteen dollars a week?
Well I should say they did! Why, on the Phonograph they will average five dollars a day right along, and in good weeks some of them make sixty, seventy, and even as high as a hundred dollars a week. There is Billings, for instance. If this three-column story is all his, as it probably is, there is twenty-four dollars for him for a single days work.
It seems to me I should prefer to be on space, said Myles.
So would most fellows. There is not only more money in it, but it is more exciting, and more like regular business. On the Phonograph, though, all new men have to serve an apprenticeship at a small salary for a long time before they are entitled to go on space.
How long? asked Myles.
It depends entirely on the fellow himself. Some have to wait years. Others make their stories so interesting and prove such valuable reporters that they can demand to be put on space within a few months. Billings, I believe, was only three months on salary.
Who is this Billings, any way?
I dont know exactly who he is. He comes from the West, somewhere; Chicago, I believe; but he is one of the very best all-round reporters in the city, as well as one of the coolest and pluckiest fellows in a tight place I ever heard of. They tell the story of him that one day, while he was working for a Chicago paper, he was sent out to report an anarchist meeting. He was with the police when a lighted bomb was thrown almost at his feet. Everybody scattered police and all but Billings deliberately picked the thing up and plunged it into a barrel of water close at hand that some masons were using in front of a new building. Oh, hes a cool one, and you can count on him every time. He is one of the best chaps going, too, and always ready to help a fellow-reporter who is out of luck. By the way, that little story of mine about the suicide brought in twelve dollars, sent to the city editor in small sums, for the benefit of the family. I took it to the woman last night.
Well, said Myles, I never thought of a newspaper as a charitable institution before.
You didnt! Well, they are; and the Phonograph distributes more cash charity every year than any one of the regular societies for the purpose in the city.
Here the two separated, and Myles started downtown wondering what novel experience this day might hold in store for him.
CHAPTER VI.
A REPORTER AT HOME
WHEN Myles reached the office, on the second morning of his new life, and entered the city-room, it struck him as so cool, clean, and quiet, as contrasted with its glare, heat, and bustle of a few hours before, when he left it tired out and discouraged, that he could hardly realize it was the same place. Although he had not yet been given a desk or a locker he felt very much at home, and ventured to say Good-morning to several of the reporters who were already at their desks. Some of them answered him pleasantly, while one or two simply stared at him, as much as to say: Who is this fellow, any way?
More out of curiosity than any thing else Myles glanced at the mail slate, and to his surprise found his name among those for whom letters were waiting. Mr. Brown handed him two. The first was from his mother, expressing surprise and disappointment at the line of business into which he had gone, and begging him to come home and talk it over with them before committing himself to it. Myles smiled as he finished this letter, and thought: Poor mother! she regards reporters about as I did before I knew any thing of them; but perhaps I shall be able to make her think differently.
The other note was in a strange handwriting, and ran as follows:
My Dear Proxy:
If you will call some time to-day during business hours at room Q, Mills Building, and inquire for Mr. Leigh, he will give you a bit of news that you may consider worthy of publication in the Phonograph.
Your Friend of the Oxygen.Heres a mystery, thought Myles; I wonder what it means. I guess Ill run down there if I have a chance; there may be something in it.
Just then a pleasant-faced young man, who had been chatting with a group of reporters, and whom Myles had noticed as one that everybody in the office seemed glad of a chance to talk with, stepped up to him and held out his hand, saying:
You are the new reporter, I believe, and your name is Manning. Mine is Rolfe, and I am glad to welcome to the office a fellow who can hold his own in a street row as pluckily as you did yesterday.
I am much obliged, said Myles, taking the others offered hand, and very glad indeed to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rolfe, for it does seem rather lonely here when you dont know anybody. But how did you hear any thing about yesterday?
Why, there is a full account of your little scrimmage in one of the Brooklyn papers of last evening, though of course your name isnt mentioned. You are only spoken of as a New York reporter; but Billings told us who it was. Yesterday was your first day, was it not?
Yes, replied Myles, and when I saw that I didnt have any thing in the paper this morning I was afraid it would be my last. Isnt every reporter expected to have something in every number?
No, indeed, laughed Rolfe. If they did their number would have to be reduced at least one half, or else the paper increased to double its present size. Why, a large part of the matter written goes into the waste-basket, which in old times, when the Phonograph was only a four-page paper, we used to call the fifth page. There are several editors employed in this office merely to throw away all the copy they possibly can and to condense the rest to its most compact form. Dont you worry about not getting any thing in. It may be a week or more before a word of what you write gets printed. I believe it was a month before my first article got into type, and I was twice warned by Mr. Haxall to brace up.
How is it with your articles now? asked Myles, curiously.
Oh, Im doing fairly well, and get something into the paper every now and then, answered the other, carelessly. I happened to make a lucky hit with a story one day, and since then Ive had nothing to complain of. Youll do the same if you only peg away at it, and then you will be all right. You have already succeeded in getting yourself talked about, and that is half the battle with all literary workers, even including reporters.