A few minutes later the mob had been pretty thoroughly dispersed, and Billings said:
“Well, this shindy is about finished, so let’s 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 inspector’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 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. I’ve just begun; but then I’m 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 there’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 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, that’s 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 day’s work he had ever done.
Myles was awakened the next morning by a knock at his door and Van Cleef’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 I was so anxious to hear of your first day’s 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 don’t 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:
“There’s 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 isn’t 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 can’t find a word of it in this article. I declare, though, if here isn’t an account of that secret meeting in Williamsburg that I walked my feet off looking for 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 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 can’t learn it all in a 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 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 wouldn’t make any difference to you.”
“What do you mean by ‘space’?” asked Myles. “I heard the word several times yesterday, but didn’t 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 day’s 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