Under Orders: The story of a young reporter. Munroe Kirk

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, 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 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 didn’t! 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.

      “Here’s a mystery,” thought Myles; “I wonder what it means. I guess I’ll 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 other’s offered hand, “and very glad indeed to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rolfe, for it does seem rather lonely here when you don’t 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 isn’t 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 didn’t have any thing in the paper this morning I was afraid it would be my last. Isn’t 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. Don’t 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, I’m 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 I’ve had nothing to complain of. You’ll 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.”