CHAPTER IV.
BEGINNING A NEW LIFE.
VAN CLEEF seemed to fall asleep at once, but the novel train of thoughtwhirling through Myles’ brain rendered it impossible for him to followthis example immediately. As he lay, with wide-open eyes, recallingthe incidents of the day it seemed incredible that he had seen, andlearned, and gone through with what he had, all within the space of afew hours. Could it be that he had left home prepared to give up hiscollege life only that morning? He must send them a long letter, forthey would be so anxious to hear every thing that had happened to him.As he said this to himself his thoughts merged into dreams so graduallythat he had no knowledge of where the one ended and the other began.
“Wake up, old man, wake up! Here it is nine o’clock Tuesday morning andthe week’s work yet to be done.”
It was Van Cleef’s voice, and as Myles sprang to a sitting posture andrubbed his eyes he saw his friend standing beside the bed fully dressedand looking as bright as if sleep were something for which he had noneed.
“Yes,” he said, in answer to Myles’ inquiring glance, “I have been upand out for an hour, and I’m sorry to say that I have bad news for you.”
Myles’ expression at once became anxious. Had the city editor sent wordthat he had changed his mind and did not want him after all?
“You see,” continued Van Cleef, “I was worried about that dress-suitbusiness. So I just slipped out without waking you, and went up to oldJohnnie’s to get it; but I was too late. He sold it last evening; andso—there we are!”
“Then I suppose there is no use of my going down to the _Phonograph_office again,” said Myles, trying to speak with a cheerfulness that hedid not feel.
“No use!” exclaimed the other. “Why, of course there is. You are underorders, you know, and must at least report for duty, whether youare wanted or not. The only thing is that you will have to tell Mr.Haxall.”
“Yes, I suppose I must,” answered Myles, soberly, as he began to dress,“and then he will probably tell me that a dress-suit, and not MylesManning, was what he engaged, and that without it he has no use for itslate owner. I suppose I can stand it, though, as well as another, butit will be a disappointment.”
“Of course it will if it comes,” replied Van Cleef, cheerfully; “butI do not believe it will. At any rate there is no use making mattersworse by worrying in advance; so let’s brace up and go out forbreakfast. I’m as hungry as a boot-black. By the way, I spoke to mylandlady this morning and find that she has a vacant hall-bedroom thatyou can have for three dollars a week if you want it. It’s small, butit’s clean and airy, and this is a most respectable neighborhood. Aboveall, it is cheap, which is the main thing with me, and also, I take it,with you just at present.”
“Of course it is,” answered Myles, “and I shall be only too glad to bein the same house with you. You are almost the only friend I own now;at any rate, you are the most valuable one.”
As he spoke Myles found himself wondering if this valued friend couldbe the same class “dig” with whom he had been barely on speaking termsonly the morning before.
At a small but tidy restaurant near by, they obtained an excellentbreakfast of coffee, rolls, and boiled eggs, for twenty-five centsapiece. Van Cleef apologized for this unusual extravagance, saying thathe generally breakfasted on coffee and rolls alone for fifteen cents,but that this was an occasion.
In the restaurant they found copies of the morning papers, and Myles,paying no attention to those that he had been in the habit of reading,eagerly seized the _Phonograph_. Yes, there it was; a half-columnaccount of the scene they had witnessed the night before in the TenthAvenue tenement-house. How interesting it was! How well expressed, andwhat a pathetic picture it presented of that room and its occupants! AsMyles finished reading the story he turned to his companion with honestadmiration.
“You are a regular out-and-out genius, Van!” he exclaimed. “If I couldwrite a story like that and get it printed I’d be too proud to speak tocommon folks, and I’d expect to have my salary raised to the top notchat once.”
“Well, I fancy you’d have to take it out in expecting, then,” laughedthe other. “That may be a fair sort of a story, and I won’t say that itisn’t, but at the same time I doubt if any one besides yourself givesit a second thought. You wouldn’t if you’d been in the office a week ortwo and studied the other fellows’ work. Why, the very brightest menin the city are on the _Phonograph_, as you will soon discover. As fora raise of salary—well, you will have to write many and many a storybetter than this little screed of mine before that happy event takesplace.”
“Then mine will continue to be fifteen per week for the rest of mynatural life, or, rather, for as long as they will let me hang on downthere, I’m afraid,” sighed Myles.
“Not a bit of it, my dear fellow. A year from now you will be ’way up,probably on space, and looking back with infinite pity upon yourselfas a salary man at fifteen dollars a week. There is just one bit ofadvice, though, that, if you will let me, I should like ever so muchto give you as a starter. It is, never refuse an assignment. No matterhow hard or distasteful or insignificant the job promises to be, takeit without a word and go through with it to the best of your abilitywithout a murmur. Also, never hesitate to take hold of any piece ofwork offered you for fear you may not be capable of performing it.A reporter must be capable of any thing and must have the fullestconfidence in himself. If the city editor says some fine morning, ‘Mr.Manning, the _Phonograph_ wishes to locate the North Pole; will yoube kind enough to go and discover it?’ you must answer, ‘Certainly,sir,’ and set off at once. Such an undertaking might prove expensive;but that is the city editor’s lookout, not yours. You are under ordersexactly as though you were in the army, and your responsibility endswith obeying them to the letter. Now I must be off to recitation andyou must be getting downtown. So good-bye, and good-luck to you. Ishall probably see you again at the office this evening.”
All the way downtown the wheels of the elevated train seemed to rattleout, “Under orders, under orders,” and Myles could think of nothingelse.
“How many people are ‘under orders!’” he said to himself as hereflected that most of the best work of the world was accomplishedby those who obeyed orders. Thus thinking he finally decided that hewas proud of being “under orders,” and that if he could make a name inno other way he would at least gain a reputation for strict obedienceto them. In reaching this conclusion he took a most important forwardstep, for in learning to obey orders one also learns how to give them.
Myles reached the office a few minutes before eleven o’clock, and,walking boldly past the boys who guarded its entrance, bowing to, andreceiving a pleasant “good-morning” from, Mr. Brown as he did so, heentered the city-room, as that portion of the editorial offices devotedto the use of reporters and news editors is called.
The great room was as clean, neat, and fresh as the office-boys, whohad been at work upon it for the past hour, could make it. Every deskand chair was in its place, and not a scrap of paper littered the newlyswept floor. In the corner farthest from the entrance, beside a largeopen window that overlooked the busy scene of Park Row, City HallPark, and Broadway beyond it, sat the city editor before a handsomeflat-topped desk. Other single desks occupied favorable positionsbeside other windows, but their chairs were vacant at this early hour.Down the middle of the floor ran two parallel rows of double desks,each containing a locked drawer and each supplied with pens, ink,writing-and blotting-paper. These were for the reporters. At one sidewas a long reading-shelf, beneath which hung files of all the citypapers. At the back of the room was a row of lockers like those in agymnasium, in which were, kept overcoats, hats, umbrellas, and othersuch articles belonging to the occupants of the office.
A dozen or more bright-looking, well-dressed young men sat or stoodabout the room chatting, reading the morning papers, or holding shortconsultations with the city editor. While talking with them he hardlylooked up from the paper that he was glan
cing over with practisedeyes, and occasionally clipping a paragraph from with a pair of long,slim shears. He took these papers from a pile lying on his deskthat contained a copy of every morning daily published in New York,Brooklyn, or Jersey City. The little slips that he cut from them werelaid by themselves at one end of his desk.
It was a pleasant room. Its very air was inspiring, and Myles wishedhe were sure of being permanently established as one of its occupants.But the thought of the confession he had to make, and of its probableresults, weighed heavily on his mind. He was impatient to have it overwith and to know the worst at once.
Walking straight up to the city editor’s desk he said:
“Good-morning, Mr. Haxall. I——”
“Ah, good-morning, Mr. Manning. Glad to see you so promptly on hand. Ifyou will find a seat I’ll have time to talk with you in a few minutes.”
So Myles found a seat on a window-sill and amused himself by watchingwhat was going on around him. He noticed that as each reporter enteredthe room he walked directly to a slate, that hung on the wall near thedoor, and read carefully a list of names written on it. He afterwardfound that this was a list of those for whom mail matter had comeaddressed to the office. Having received his letters from Mr. Brown,and taken one or more copies of the morning _Phonograph_ from a pile onthe janitor’s desk, each reporter occupied himself as he chose untilsummoned by Mr. Haxall and given an assignment.
Upon accepting this, his name and the nature of the duty he was aboutto undertake were entered on the page, for that day, of a largeblank-book known as the “assignment book.” Myles also noticed thatnearly every assignment was given in the form of one of the slipsclipped from other papers by the city editor. The reporter generallywalked slowly away, reading this slip, and studying the problem thuspresented to him, as he went. When, some days afterward, Myles had alook at this famous assignment book he found that each of its pageswas dated, and that in it clippings, referring to future events, wereentered under their respective dates.
The young reporter sat so near the city editor’s desk that he couldcatch fragments of the conversation between Mr. Haxall and thosewhom he was dispatching to all parts of the city, its suburbs, andapparently to remote corners of the country as well He overheard oneyoung man ordered to take a journey that would certainly occupy daysand possibly weeks. Myles watched this reporter with curious eyes as,after taking a small hand-bag from his locker, he left the office ascarelessly as though his journey was only to be across the BrooklynBridge instead of into a wilderness a thousand miles away, as it reallywas.
Myles envied this reporter, as he also did another who was sent out tothe very New Jersey village in which his own home was located. How hedid wish he might have that assignment.
At length when the others had been sent away on their respectiveerrands Mr. Haxall called his name, and he stepped forward with aquickly-beating heart to receive his first assignment.
“I only wanted to know your city address, Mr. Manning,” said the cityeditor, looking up with a pleasant smile. “We find it necessary to knowwhere our reporters live, so that in an emergency they may be reachedout of office-hours.”
When Myles had given the required address he still remained standingbefore the desk. Noticing this Mr. Haxall again looked up and said:
“Is there any thing else?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Myles, hesitating and becoming very red in theface, like a school-boy before his master, “I wanted to say that Ihaven’t any dress-suit.”
“Haven’t what?” asked the city editor, in amazement.
“A dress-suit.”
“Haven’t a dress-suit?” repeated Mr. Haxall, with a perplexed air, andregarding Myles as though he feared for his mental condition. “Well,what of it?”
“Why, I thought the reason you engaged me was because I owned adress-suit. Mr. Van Cleef told me so.”
“Oh,” laughed the city editor, tilting back in his chair for the fullerenjoyment of his merriment. “That’s a good one! And now it seems thatyou don’t own a dress-suit, after all. Well, I am sorry; but nevermind, we will try to get along without it, and I will find somethingfor you to do directly that won’t require one.”
So the confession was made and Myles had not lost his place, after all.He resumed his seat with a light heart and for another hour patientlyawaited orders. In the meantime several men came in, wrote out theirreports, handed them to the city editor, and were sent off again. Mr.Haxall filed most of these reports on a hook without even glancing overthem.
At the end of an hour, when the office was completely deserted by allexcept the city editor and himself, Myles was again called by name.
“Now,” thought he, “I am surely to get an assignment.”
And so he did, though it was by no means such an one as he expected.Handing him a ten-cent piece, the city editor said:
“I find that I can’t take time to go out for lunch to-day, Mr. Manning,and as the office-boys seem to be absent, will you kindly run out tothe nearest restaurant and get me a couple of sandwiches?”
It was disappointing and mortifying to be sent on such an errand, andfor an instant Myles’ pride rebelled against it. Then the words “underorders,” together with Van Cleef’s advice, flashed into his mind, andwith a cheerful “Certainly, sir,” he started off.
When he returned and laid the sandwiches, neatly done up in thin whitepaper, on Mr. Haxall’s desk, that gentleman said:
“I wish you would just step over to Brooklyn, Mr. Manning, and reportto Billings at Police Head-quarters. He has charge of the horse-carstrike over there, and telegraphs that he can use another man toadvantage.”
“Is he a police captain, sir?” asked Myles, not knowing who Billingsmight be.
“A police captain? Of course not. What put that idea into your head?”replied Mr. Haxall, a little sharply. “Billings is one of our bestreporters, and, as I said, is in charge of this street-car strike.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” answered Myles, as he started off greatlyenlightened by this explanation.
He had no difficulty in finding Brooklyn, because he had been therebefore; but he was obliged to inquire the way to Police Head-quarters.A few years ago he would have had a long walk before reaching it, fornot one of the hundreds of horse-cars that usually throng the tracks onFulton Street was to be seen. Their absence made that part of the cityseem strangely silent and deserted; but fortunately the elevated trainswere running, and Myles soon reached his destination.
The street in front of Police Head-quarters was blocked by agood-natured throng of strikers, through which Myles had somedifficulty in forcing his way. At the door he was met by a policeman,who gruffly said: “No admittance, young man,” and immediatelyafterward, when Myles had stated his business, “Certainly, walk rightin. You will find Mr. Billings in the inspector’s room.”
Now Myles had formed an impression of Billings, which was that he mustbe a man much older than himself, and probably larger and stronger,or else why should he be detailed for this especial work? He expectedto find him busily engaged in writing, or dispatching other reportershither and thither, and having the anxious, self-important air of onewho occupied a delicate and responsible position.
The real Billings as he there appeared, seated at a table in theinspector’s room intent upon a game of dominos with the inspectorhimself, was about as different from this impression as it is possibleto conceive. He was a slightly-built, delicate-looking young man,apparently not any older than Myles, and with a beardless face. Hewas exquisitely dressed, deliberate in his movements, and so languidof speech that it seemed an effort for him to talk. Myles rememberedto have seen him in the _Phonograph_ office that morning and to havewondered what business that dude had there.
However, this was undoubtedly the Billings to whom Mr. Haxall hadordered him to report, and he accordingly did so.
“Yes,” said Billings, with a gentle drawl, as he looked up fromhis game and regarded Myles with a pair of the most brilliant andpene
trating eyes the latter had ever seen. “Just had a dispatch aboutyou from Joe (Mr. Joseph Haxall). New man. Name of Manning. Break youin. Well, Manning, there’s a strike. No horse-cars all day. Railroadofficials about to send car out on B—— Avenue line. Leaves stable infifteen minutes. Probably be some fun. You may go and ride on this car.Have a good time. Take it all in, then come back here.”
Myles could have choked the little fellow who coolly sat there tellinghim to do thus and so. For the second time that day he was stronglytempted to rebel and to maintain his dignity. The idea of that “littleabsurdity,” as he mentally styled Billings, issuing commands to him!Then for the second time came the words “under orders.” Had he notbeen ordered to obey Billings? To be sure he had, and with an “Allright” he left the building.
As he made his way toward the car-stables he wondered why Billings hadnot undertaken that ride himself, as he seemed to have nothing else todo except play dominos. The more he thought of it the more he becameconvinced that it was because Billings was afraid.