CHAPTER V.
THE KIND OF A FELLOW BILLINGS WAS.
“YES, Billings must be afraid,” said Myles, to himself, “and I don’tknow but what I would be, too, if I were such a white-faced little chapas he is.” Here Myles threw back his own broad shoulders, held his heada trifle higher than usual, and rejoiced in the stalwart frame that hadbeen such an ornament in the X——“‘Varsity” boat. “I wonder what Mr.Haxall meant,” he continued to himself, “by speaking of him as one ofthe best reporters on the _Phonograph_. If he should see him at thismoment I rather think he would call him something else. How little acity editor can really know of his men any way!”
While thus thinking Myles was threading the unfamiliar streets of acity as strange to him as though it had been a hundred miles from NewYork, in search of the car-stables of the B—— Avenue line.
It took him so long to find them that, when he finally did so, the caron which he was ordered to ride had been gone some ten minutes. Therewas nothing to do but overtake it if possible, and the young reporterstarted down the track at the same pace he was accustomed to set forhis crew when they were out for a “sweater,” as they called theirtraining runs.
After running half-a-dozen blocks he began to meet signs of the strike.Here was a broken and overturned market-wagon that had evidently beenplaced across the track as a barricade, and there a place from whichsome paving-stones had been torn up. Now he began to be joined byothers running in the same direction with himself, and to hear a noisedifferent from the ordinary sounds of the city. As he rounded a cornerthis noise resolved itself into the shouts, cheers, and yells of anangry mob, and above all rang out sharply an occasional pistol-shot.
The street was filled with hundreds of excited men and boys, whosenumber was constantly increasing. They were all crowding toward someobject of common interest which, when he got close enough to make itout, Myles saw was the very car in which he had been ordered to ride.It was occupied by a dozen or so of policemen, and was slowly urgingits way forward with frequent halts, while another squad of policemencleared a passage for it through the crowd. Every now and then apaving-stone crashed through a window or splintered the woodwork ofthe car. A throng of reckless men surged alongside of it, trying inevery way they could think of to impede its progress. The company haddeclared this car should go through. The strikers declared it shouldnot. They tried to lift it from the rails, to overturn it, to drag thedriver from his platform, to kill the horses, or in some other way tostop that car.
By a steady use of their long, powerful night-clubs, the police whoguarded the car had thus far kept the mob at bay, and prevented themfrom accomplishing their purpose.
A HOARSE VOICE SHOUTED THE OMINOUS WORD “SPOTTER.”(_Page 69._)]
Through this angry throng Myles now began to make his way, for he hadbeen sent to ride with those policemen, and he was determined to doso if it were a possible thing. At first he had comparatively littletrouble; but as he approached the thick of the crowd he was obligedto push so roughly, and make such decided efforts to get ahead, asto draw attention upon himself. At first he was only shoved, and hisway was purposely blocked. Then the looks of those about him began togrow black and threatening. A hoarse voice shouted the ominous word,“spotter.” The cry was taken up and repeated by a hundred throats. ThenMyles received a savage blow from behind. The crowd had recognizedthat he was not of them, and blindly argued that he must therefore beagainst them. The situation was a critical one, and Myles realized it.
He was now hemmed in so closely on all sides that to retreat would beimpossible even had he thought of such a thing, but he did not. His oneidea was still to get to the car, and under a shower of blows, that hewarded to the best of his ability, or bore unflinchingly, he struggledforward. All of his strength, pluck, and skill, however, could not savehim, and within two minutes he was borne to the ground by the sheerforce of numbers, while some of his enemies fell on top of him.
At that moment there came a quick measured tramp of feet, a backwardmovement of the mob, and the crash of tough locust clubs. The policewere charging to the rescue of the brave young fellow. He struggled tohis feet bruised, breathless, hatless, with clothing torn and coveredwith dust, but with unbroken bones and undaunted spirit.
“Who are you? and what do you mean by making such a row?” demanded theroundsman who led the charging party, as he laid his hand heavily onMyles’ shoulder.
“A reporter from the _Phonograph_, who was ordered to ride on that car,and means to if he can fight his way to it,” was the answer.
“I might have known it,” said the officer, with a resigned air. “Youreporters do beat the world for getting us cops into trouble. The ideaof a chap like you undertaking to fight that whole crowd! Nobody but acrank or a reporter would think of such a thing. It’s a good thing tocarry out orders when you can, but it’s a better to use common-senseand not attempt to undertake impossibilities.”
“I was only trying to find out whether it was an impossibility or not,”laughed Myles.
While they thus talked the officer led his party of police back to thecar. It had stopped while its defenders charged the mob, and now itagain started ahead. Hardly had it got into motion when, with a wildyell, the mob came charging back upon it, and with a tremendous crashthe car was lifted from the track and hurled upon its side. It was afull minute before Myles succeeded in clearing himself from the wreckand again scrambling to his feet. As he was rubbing the dirt from hiseyes, and thinking what a particularly lively occupation this businessof reporting was, he heard a familiar voice call out:
“I say, new man—I don’t remember your name—why don’t you come uphere? You can get an elegant view of the scrimmage.”
Myles could hardly believe it, but nevertheless it was really Billings,as beautifully neat and clean as ever, perched up on the side of theoverturned car, calmly surveying the scene of tumult, and apparentlyunconscious of the missiles and occasional pistol-shots that flew pasthim.
Myles clambered up to a position beside his temporary chief, exclaimingas he did so:
“How on earth do you happen to be here just now! and why do you choosesuch an exposed place?”
“Oh, I just came down here with the inspector to see the fun, aswe heard the situation was becoming interesting. I chose this placebecause I’m a reporter and I can see better what to report from up herethan I could down there in the crowd.”
“But you are in great danger of getting hit up here.”
“Oh, no, they wouldn’t hit me. See how scared they are if I only justlook at them.”
Billings had an open note-book in his hand, and Myles saw withamazement that whenever he fixed his eyes upon any particular person orgroup in the crowd, and pretended to be taking notes in his book, thesepersons immediately turned their backs or slunk away.
“Well, that beats all!” he exclaimed. “What do you do and how do you doit?”
“I don’t do any thing, only look at ’em. They think, though, that Iam drawing their pictures for one of the illustrated papers, and theydon’t want to be spotted by having their likenesses printed.”
A few minutes later the mob had been pretty thoroughly dispersed, andBillings said:
“Well, this shindy is about finished, so let’s get back tohead-quarters and grind out a little copy.”
As they walked back together Myles’ opinion of Billings’ courage wasvery different from what it had been a short time before, and he saidto himself:
“I believe the little chap is made up of pure grit after all.”
At the police-station Billings coolly took possession of theinspector’s 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 storyof his recent experience. At the same time he threw off his coat andbegan to write his own report with such rapidity that Myles marvelledat it.
By the time the latter had laboriously thought out and written foursheets of copy, which contained all that he considered w
orth relatingof what he had seen, Billings had covered twenty or more sheets thatlay, 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. I’ve just begun; but then I’m onspace, you know, and that makes all the difference. By the way, I wishyou would run up to Williamsburg and look around a bit. I understandthere’s 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 miserablerestaurant, which was the only one he could find. Then for hours hewalked the streets of that part of Brooklyn known as Williamsburg,knowing no more than the man in the moon where to look for the secretmeeting. He inquired of all the street-car men he could find, in everysaloon he saw, and of several policemen, but could get no informationconcerning it. Finally, late at night, worn out and discouraged, heconcluded that no meeting had been held, and returned to the placewhere he had left Billings, only to find that the young man had goneback to New York some hours before.
It was after midnight when Myles reached the _Phonograph_ office andreported 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 todiscover the meeting. He was about to add that he did not believe anyhad been held, when the busy night man interrupted him with:
“Oh, that’s all right. Billings got what there was of it and turned itin an hour ago.”
After waiting in the bustling place a few minutes longer, a strangeramong strangers, Myles concluded that he was only in the way and hadbetter go home. When he reached the tiny room that was now the onlyplace he could call his own, he was physically and mentally exhaustedby the hardest day’s work he had ever done.
Myles was awakened the next morning by a knock at his door and VanCleef’s voice inquiring if he were not ready to go out for breakfast.
“Excuse me for waking you,” said Van Cleef, as Myles appeared, “but Iwas so anxious to hear of your first day’s experience that I hated toleave 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 firstassignment 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 youhad 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 tobuy to replace the one lost in the fight, if you don’t believe me.”Here Myles glanced ruefully at his coat and trousers, that still boretokens of their recent hard usage. Then buying a _Phonograph_ from anewsboy, and pointing to the leading article on the first page, whichwas a three-column story of the street-car strike, he said:
“There’s my job.”
“That!” exclaimed Van Cleef, incredulously, as he noted the heading andlength of the article. “Why, I thought Billings was doing that strike.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Myles, carelessly, “there was a little chap namedBillings over there who worked with me.”
“‘A little chap named Billings who worked with me.’ Ho, ho! ha, ha!”shouted Van Cleef. “If that isn’t good! I only wish ‘Old Bills,’ asthe boys call him, could hear you say that. Really, though, how muchdid you write of this?”
“Well, I really did write something; but I as really can’t find a wordof it in this article. I declare, though, if here isn’t an account ofthat secret meeting in Williamsburg that I walked my feet off lookingfor and couldn’t find. How do you suppose the paper got hold of it?”
“Why, I suppose some Associated-Press man stumbled across it and sentit in. Then, of course, it was turned over to Billings, as he hadcharge of all the strike matter, and he worked it into his story. Butwhere did you look for that meeting?”
“Everywhere.”
“Did you go to the police-stations and inquire of the sergeants, or tothe head-quarters of any of the trades-unions?”
“Why, no,” answered Myles, reflectively. “I never thought of thoseplaces.”
“Oh, well,” said Van Cleef, consolingly, “you can’t learn it all ina day; but you’ll soon get the hang of news-gathering. I am sorry,though, that your screed didn’t get printed.”
“There is an account here of running that car over the line, giving thenames of the officers who were on board and of the driver, but it neveroccurred to me to get those, nor is the rest of it at all as I wroteit. It is a great deal better than mine was.”
“Probably Billings took your stuff and worked it over,” suggested theother. “You see it all counts as space for him, and he thought, as youare on salary, it wouldn’t make any difference to you.”
“What do you mean by ‘space’?” asked Myles. “I heard the word severaltimes yesterday, but didn’t understand it.”
“Why, most New York reporters are ‘space men’—that is, they do notreceive a regular sum of money every week, without regard to how muchor how little they have in the paper, but are paid so much per columnfor what they get printed. The _Phonograph_ and one or two otherpapers, for instance, pay eight dollars per column, while others payseven, 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 averagefive dollars a day right along, and in good weeks some of them makesixty, seventy, and even as high as a hundred dollars a week. There isBillings, for instance. If this three-column story is all his, as itprobably is, there is twenty-four dollars for him for a single day’swork.”
“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 ismore exciting, and more like regular business. On the _Phonograph_,though, all new men have to serve an apprenticeship at a small salaryfor 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 valuablereporters 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 don’t know exactly who he is. He comes from the West, somewhere;Chicago, I believe; but he is one of the very best all-round reportersin the city, as well as one of the coolest and pluckiest fellows in atight 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 reportan anarchist meeting. He was with the police when a lighted bomb wasthrown almost at his feet. Everybody scattered—police and all—butBillings deliberately picked the thing up and plunged it into a barrelof water close at hand that some masons were using in front of a newbuilding. Oh, he’s 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 afellow-reporter who is out of luck. By the way, that little story ofmine about the suicide brought in twelve dollars, sent to the cityeditor in small sums, for the benefit of the family. I took it to thewoman last night.”
“Well,” said Myles, “I never thought of a newspaper as a charitableinstitution before.”
“You didn’t! Well, they are; and the _Phonograph_ distributes morecash charity every year than any one of the regular societies for thepurpose in the city.”
Here the two separated, and Myles started downtown wondering what novelexperience this day might hold in store for him.