CHAPTER II.
TRYING TO BECOME A REPORTER.
“JOURNALISM!” exclaimed Myles Manning, in answer to Van Cleef’ssuggestion. “Why, I never thought of such a thing, and I don’t knowthe first thing about it. To be sure,” he added, reflectively, “I havehelped edit the college _Oarsman_, and have written one or two littlethings that got published in our country weekly out home; but I don’tsuppose all that would help a fellow much in real journalism.”
Here Myles looked up at his companion, hoping to hear him say thatthese things would go far toward securing him a position on one of thebig dailies. But Van Cleef was too honest a fellow to raise false hopesin another, and he said:
“No; of course all that doesn’t amount to any thing. Everybody doesmore or less of that sort of thing nowadays, and it’s generally in thepoetry line; but there’s nothing practical in it.”
Here Myles blushed consciously as he recalled the fact that most of hisown efforts had been in the “poetry line”; but he said nothing.
“At any rate,” continued Van Cleef, “you probably know as much ofjournalism as you do of Wall Street or any other business, and thatis just nothing at all. You’d have to begin at the very bottom, anyway, and work up. Now, reporting is the only thing I know of that paysa fellow living wages from the very first, and that is the reason Imentioned it.”
“Reporting!” echoed Myles, pausing in his packing and looking upwith an expression of amazement. “You don’t mean to say that your‘journalism’ means being only a common reporter?”
Now, in Myles’ set reporters were always spoken of, when mentioned atall, as a class of beings to be despised. He had come to regard themas a lot of very common fellows, who spent their time in prying intoother people’s business, who were to be avoided as much as possible,but who must be treated decently when met, for fear lest they might“write a fellow up,” or put his name in the papers in some unpleasantconnection. When Van Cleef mentioned journalism his hearer’s fancyat once sprang into the position of an editorial writer, a well-paidcontributor of graceful verse or witty paragraphs, a critic, foreigncorrespondent, or something of that sort. But to be only a reporter!Why, the mere thought of such a thing was humiliating.
“Why not?” asked Van Cleef, in reply to Myles’ question, and insurprise at his tone. “A first-class, well-trained, reporter is one ofthe brightest, smartest, and best-informed men in the city. He knowseverybody worth knowing, and every thing that is happening or about tohappen. He is as valuable to his paper as the editor-in-chief, and heoften earns as much money. A reporter must of necessity learn somethingof every kind of business, and he meets with more chances than anyother man to change his employment, if he wants to, for one that willpay him better.
“Look at the prominent politicians, railroad presidents, and othersnow occupying the most honorable positions of trust and power inthis country, and see how many of them began life as reporters. Ourpresent Secretary of State was once a reporter, and a good one too.The President’s private secretary, who is called the ‘power behind thethrone,’ was a reporter. A late Secretary of the Treasury was once areporter. I have a personal knowledge of six members of Congress whoused to be reporters. All the foreign correspondents, who are reallythe men controlling the destinies of nations, are nothing more nor lessthan reporters. Stanley was a reporter, and so were hundreds more whoare now world-famed. Oh, I tell you what, Manning, there is nothing tobe ashamed of in being a reporter, though I will admit that most peopleseem to think there is.
“Of course, there are a lot of sneaks and worthless fellows in thisbusiness, as in every other, but they are decidedly in the minority,and are fast being weeded out. The newspapers now demand the very bestmen as reporters, and they are getting them, too. You have heard, ofcourse, of the professorship of journalism at C—— College? Well, itwas established by a man who, only a few years ago, was a reporter onone of the New York papers, and he is making a first-class thing of it.I am a sort of a reporter myself,” he continued, laughing, “and theminute I graduate from here I mean to become a full-fledged one.”
“You a reporter!” cried Myles. “How can you be a reporter and a collegeman at the same time?”
“Easy enough, or rather by working hard and sacrificing some sleep,”answered Van Cleef. “You see,” he continued, in a slightly embarrassedtone, for he was not given to talking of himself or his own affairs,“I am not one of you wealthy fellows, but have had to hoe my own rowever since I was fifteen. When I came here to enter college I had tofind something to do to support myself at the same time. After a lot ofdisappointments I was fortunate enough to obtain a night-station job onthe _Phonograph_, and, though the pay is small, it is enough to keep megoing.”
“What do you mean by a ‘night-station’ job?” asked Myles, now greatlyinterested in what Van Cleef was saying.
“Why,” laughed the other, “it means that I go at ten o’clock everyevening to the police-station nearest Central Park, on either the eastor the west side of the city, and walk from there down to the Battery.On the way I stop at every station and at the hospitals to inquire forstray bits of news or interesting incidents. As the route lies throughthe very lowest and worst parts of town one is also apt to run acrosssomething or other of interest that even the police have not found out.I have to be all through and report at the office at sharp one o’clock.”
“I should think that would be fun,” said Myles; “and I should likemightily to take the trip with you some night.”
“I should only be too glad of your company,” returned the other, “andperhaps you would enjoy it for once. I can tell you though, it gets tobe awfully monotonous after you have done it for a year or so, and Ishall be happy enough to give it up for regular reporting when the timecomes that I can do so.”
“Aren’t you in great danger, walking alone so late at night through theslums?” asked Myles.
“Oh, no—that is, not to speak of. A reporter, if he is known to besuch, is generally safe enough wherever he goes, and I am pretty wellknown by this time along the entire line of my route.”
“You carry a pistol, of course?”
“Indeed I do nothing so foolish,” answered Van Cleef. “It would becertain to get me into trouble sooner or later. I only carry thisbadge, and it affords a better protection than all the pistols I couldstuff into my pockets.”
Here the speaker threw open his coat and displayed the silver badge ofa deputy sheriff pinned to his vest.
“Yes, I have been regularly sworn in,” he continued, in answer toMyles’ inquiring glance, “and the sight of it acts like magic inquieting a crowd of toughs. It passes me through fire-lines, too, whichis often a great convenience.”
“What do you do in vacations?” asked Myles, with the curiosity of oneexploring a new world of experience, the very existence of which he hadnot heretofore dreamed of.
“Do my station-work nights, and in the daytime read law or studyEnglish literature in the library,” answered Van Cleef. “Once in awhile the city editor offers me an excursion assignment. Then I take aday off from study and get paid for going into the country at the sametime.”
“An excursion assignment?” questioned Myles.
“Yes; every job on which a reporter is sent is called an ‘assignment,’or, in some offices, a ‘detail,’ and if he is sent on a Chinese picnic,or down the bay with the newsboys, or up the Sound with the fat men, oron any other trip of that kind, it is an excursion assignment.”
“Well, look here, Van Cleef, it seems to me that you are one of themost plucky fellows I ever met!” exclaimed Myles, extending a hand thatthe other grasped heartily, “and I am ashamed of myself not to haveknown you before.”
“I don’t know that that has been your fault so much as my own. I knewthat I had no business with your set of fellows, so I have kept out ofyour way as much as possible,” remarked the other, quietly.
“And a good thing for you that you have,” cried Myles, bitterly,“for my opinion of that s
et of fellows is—well,” he added, checkinghimself, “never mind now what it is. I have done with them, and theywith me. The question of present interest is, do you think I could evermake a reporter; and, if so, can you tell me where to find a job at thebusiness?”
By these questions it will be seen that our young man’s ideasconcerning business, and the business of reporting in particular, hadundergone some very decided changes since he left home that morning.
“You are undoubtedly bright enough and smart enough,” answered VanCleef, “and I have no doubt that if you should stick to the businesslong enough, and accept its rough knocks as a desirable part of yourtraining, you could readily become a first-class reporter. As forobtaining a job at it, that is quite another thing. The newspaperoffices all over the country, and especially in New York, are besiegedby young fellows who want to try their hand at reporting, but notone in a hundred of them is taken on. I’ll tell you, though, what wewill do. The only paper on which I know anybody of influence is the_Phonograph_, and perhaps you wouldn’t like it as well as some other.So you take a run by yourself among the offices of all the big dailiesthis afternoon. The little ones are not worth trying. Send your cardin to the city editors, and apply for work. If you don’t find anythat suits you, meet me at the _Phonograph_ office at five o’clockand I’ll introduce you to the city editor there. I don’t say that myintroduction will do any good. Probably it won’t; but at any rateit will give you a chance to talk with him, and plead your own case.Afterward we will dine together somewhere, and then, if you choose, youcan go with me on my round of stations.”
“Good enough!” cried Myles; “that’s an immense plan, and we willcarry it out to the letter. You won’t mind if I say there are oneor two papers that I’d rather become connected with than with the_Phonograph_. That seem just a little more respectable and high-toned,don’t you know.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” laughed Van Cleef, “and my feelings are not in theslightest ruffled by your prejudice, which is quite a popular one. Iattribute it wholly to your ignorance, and know that you will outgrowit before you have been many days a reporter.”
“And, by the way,” said Myles, as the other was about to leave theroom, “you must dine with me at the Oxygen to-night. It may be the lasttime I am ever able to take anybody there, you know.”
“All right,” answered Van Cleef. “Good-bye till this evening.”
The sale, to a dealer in such things, of the furniture, pictures,and costly but useless knick-knacks with which his room was crowded,enabled Myles to pay his debts and left him about ten dollars withwhich to make a start in the business world. It was after two o’clockwhen he completed his arrangements for leaving college. He was stronglytempted to go to the river and take a look at the crew in theirpractice spin; but “business before pleasure,” the motto that he hadalready used once that day, flashed into his mind, and he resolutelyturned his face toward downtown and the newspaper offices.
Arrived at the office of the paper which, for some unexplainablereason, he considered the most respectable of all, he naturally turnedinto the counting-room that was located on the ground floor andinquired for the city editor.
“Editorial rooms up-stairs,” was the curt answer of a busy clerk, whodid not even look up from the work upon which he was engaged.
When an elevator had lifted Myles to the very top of the tallbuilding, he found himself in a small, bare room provided with two orthree chairs, and a bench upon which two small boys were playing atjackstones. One of them, leaving his game and stepping smartly up toMyles, asked what he wanted there.
“I want to see the city editor,” was the answer.
“What’s your business with him?” asked the boy.
“None of your business what my business is, you impudent young rascal,”answered Myles, angrily. “Go at once and tell the city editor that Iwish to see him.”
“And who are you, anyway?” demanded the boy, assuming an aggressiveattitude, with arms akimbo and head cocked to one side. The other boy,whose interest was now aroused, came and stood beside his companion ina similar attitude, and they both gazed defiantly at the young man.
The situation was becoming ridiculous, and, to relieve himself from itas quickly as possible, Myles produced his card-case, thrust a cardinto the hand of the first boy, and said, in a tone of suppressed rage:
“Take that to the city editor this instant, you imp, and say that thegentleman wishes to see him on business, or I’ll throw you out of thatwindow.”
Somewhat frightened by Myles’ tone the boy left the room muttering:
“A fine gentleman he is, ain’t he! A-threatening of a chap not half hissize.”
In less than a minute he returned with a renewed stock of impudence.Offering the card back to Myles he said:
“The city editor says that he don’t know you, and you’ll have to sendword what your business is with him.”
It was too humiliating. Myles could not confide to the grinning figuresbefore him that he was seeking a reporter’s position, and so, mutteringsome unintelligible words, he turned to leave. He had to wait severalminutes for the elevator, and while he did so he could not helpoverhearing the jeering comments of the two young rascals upon himself.One of them said:
“He’s out of a job, that feller is, and he came here to offer hisselfas boss editor.”
“Naw, he didn’t neither,” drawled the other. “He ain’t after no suchcommon posish as that. What he wants is your place or mine. But he’stoo young, and fresh, he is. He wouldn’t suit. No, sir-e-e.” And thenthe two little wretches exploded with laughter at their own wit.
Myles walked about the City Hall Park for some time before he couldsummon up sufficient courage for a second venture. When at last hefound his way to another editorial waiting-room it was only to beinformed that the city editor was out and would not be back until sixo’clock.
A third attempt resulted in his being ushered into the presence ofa brisk young man, apparently not much older than himself. Thisself-important individual listened impatiently while Myles hesitatinglymade known his desires, and promptly answered:
“Very sorry, sir, but absolutely no vacancy in our staff. Five hundredapplicants ahead of you. No chance at all. Good-day.”
Thus dismissed Myles got out of the office somehow, though how he couldnot have told. His mind was filled with mortification, disappointment,and anger at everybody in general and himself in particular for beingso foolish as to imagine that it was an easy thing to obtain a positionas reporter on a great daily.
It was after the appointed hour before he was sufficiently calmeddown to visit the office of the _Phonograph_, and he found Van Cleefanxiously awaiting him.
“Well,” he said, questioningly, after he had passed Myles through aboy-guarded entrance into a large, brilliantly lighted room in which anumber of young men sat at a long desk busily writing. “How have yougot on?”
“Not at all,” answered Myles, “and I don’t believe I am ever likely to.”
“Nonsense! You mustn’t be so easily discouraged. Come and let meintroduce you to Mr. Haxall, our city editor. He is a far differentkind of a man from any of the others, I can tell you.”
Mr. Haxall was kindly polite, almost cordial in his manner, andlistened attentively to Myles’ brief explanation of his position andhopes. When it was finished he, too, was beginning to say, “I am verysorry, Mr. Manning, but we have already more men than we know what todo with,” when Van Cleef said something to him in so low a tone thatMyles did not catch what it was.
“Is that so?” said Mr, Haxall, reflectively, and looking at Myles withrenewed interest. “It might be made very useful, that’s a fact. Well,I’ll strain a point and try him.”
VAN CLEEF SAID SOMETHING TO THE CITY EDITOR IN A LOWTONE. (_Page 30._)]
Then to Myles he said:
“Still, we are always on the lookout for bright, steady young fellowswho mean business. So if you want to come, and will report here atsharp eleven o’clock to-mor
row morning, I will take you on trial tillnext Saturday and pay you at the rate of fifteen dollars per week.”