Mr. King opened his eyes—they had been closed less than five seconds. “Well, let it be twenty—though just why I’m sure I don’t know. And we’ll give you a four weeks’ trial. When will you begin?”
“Now,” answered the young man, glancing about the room. “And I shall try to show that I appreciate your consideration, whether I deserve it or not.”
It was a large bare room, low of ceiling. Across one end were five windows overlooking from a great height the tempest that rages about the City Hall day and night with few lulls and no pauses. Mr. King’s roll-top desk was at the first window. Under each of the other windows was a broad flat table desk—for copy-readers. At the farthest of these sat the City Editor—thin, precise-looking, with yellow skin, hollow cheeks, ragged grey-brown moustache, ragged scant grey-brown hair and dark brown eyes. He looked nervously tired and, because brown was his prevailing shade, dusty. He rose as Mr. King came with young Howard.
“Here, Mr. Bowring, is a young man from Yale. He wishes you to teach him how to write. Mr. Howard, Mr. Bowring. I hope you gentlemen will get on comfortably together.”
Mr. King went back to his desk. Mr. Bowring and Howard looked each at the other. Mr. Bowring smiled, with good-humour, without cordiality. “Let me see, where shall we put you?” And his glance wandered along the rows of sloping table-desks—those nearer the windows lighted by daylight; those farther away, by electric lamps. Even on that cool, breezy August afternoon the sunlight and fresh air did not penetrate far into the room.
“Do you see the young man with the beautiful fair moustache,” said Mr. Bowring, “toiling away in his shirt-sleeves—there?”
“Near the railing at the entrance?”
“Precisely. I think I will put you next him.” Mr. Bowring touched a button on his desk and presently an office boy—a mop of auburn curls, a pert face and gangling legs in knickerbockers—hurried up with a “Yes, Sir?”
“Please tell Mr. Kittredge that I would like to speak to him and—please scrape your feet along the floor as little as possible.”
The boy smiled, walking away less as if he were trying to terrorize park pedestrians by a rush on roller skates. Kittredge and Howard were made acquainted and went toward their desks together. “A few moments—if you will excuse me—and I’m done,” said Kittredge motioning Howard into the adjoining chair as he sat and at once bent over his work.
Howard watched him with interest, admiration and envy. The reporter was perhaps twenty-five years old—fair of hair, fair of skin, goodlooking in a pretty way. His expression was keen and experienced yet too self-complacent to be highly intelligent. He was rapidly covering sheet after sheet of soft white paper with bold, loose hand-writing. Howard noticed that at the end of each sentence he made a little cross with a circle about it, and that he began each paragraph with a paragraph sign. Presently he scrawled a big double cross in the centre of the sheet under the last line of writing and gathered up his sheets in the numbered order. “Done, thank God,” he said. “And I hope they won’t butcher it.”
“Do you send it to be put in type?” asked Howard.
“No,” Kittredge answered with a faint smile. “I hand it in to Mr. Bowring—the City Editor, you know. And when the copyreaders come at six, it will be turned over to one of them. He reads it, cuts it down if necessary, and writes headlines for it. Then it goes upstairs to the composing room—see the box, the little dumb-waiter, over there in the wall?—well, it goes up by that to the floor above where they set the type and make up the forms.”
“I’m a complete ignoramus,” said Howard, “I hope you’ll not mind my trying to find out things. I hope I shall not bore you.”
“Glad to help you, I’m sure. I had to go through this two years ago when I came here from Princeton.”
Kittredge “turned in” his copy and returned to his seat beside Howard.
“What were you writing about, if I may ask?” inquired Howard.
“About some snakes that came this morning in a ‘tramp’ from South America. One of them, a boa constrictor, got loose and coiled around a windlass. The cook was passing and it caught him. He fainted with fright and the beast squeezed him to death. It’s a fine story—lots of amusing and dramatic details. I wrote it for a column and I think they won’t cut it. I hope not, anyhow. I need the money.”
“You are paid by the column?”
“Yes. I’m on space—what they call a space writer. If a man is of any account here they gradually raise him to twenty-five dollars a week and then put him on space. That means that he will make anywhere from forty to a hundred a week, or perhaps more at times. The average for the best is about eighty.”
“Eighty dollars a week,” thought Howard. “Fifty-two times eighty is forty-one hundred and sixty. Four thousand a year, counting out two weeks for vacation.” To Howard it seemed wealth at the limit of imagination. If he could make so much as that!—he who had grave doubts whether, no matter how hard he worked, he would ever wrench a living from the world.
Just then a seedy young man with red hair and a red beard came through the gate in the railing, nodded to Kittredge and went to a desk well up toward the daylight end of the room.
“That’s the best of ’em all,” said Kittredge in a low tone. “His name is Sewell. He’s a Harvard man—Harvard and Heidelberg. But drink! Ye gods, how he does drink! His wife died last Christmas—practically starvation. Sewell disappeared—frightful bust. A month afterward they found him under an assumed name over on Blackwell’s Island, doing three months for disorderly conduct. He wrote a Christmas carol while his wife was dying. It began “Merrily over the Snow” and went on about light hearts and youth and joy and all that—you know, the usual thing. When he got the money, she didn’t need it or anything else in her nice quiet grave over in Long Island City. So he ‘blew in’ the money on a wake.”
Sewell was coming toward them. Kittredge called out: “Was it a good story, Sam?”
“Simply great! You ought to have seen the room. Only the bed and the cook-stove and a few dishes on a shelf—everything else gone to the pawnshop. The man must have killed the children first. They lay side by side on the bed, each with its hands folded on its chest—suppose the mother did that; and each little throat was cut from ear to ear—suppose the father did that. Then he dipped his paint brush in the blood and daubed on the wall in big scrawling letters: ‘There is no God!’ Then he took his wife in his arms, stabbed her to the heart and cut his own throat. And there they lay, his arms about her, his cheek against hers, dead. It was murder as a fine art. Gad, I wish I could write.”
Kittredge introduced Howard—“a Yale man—just came on the paper.”
“Entering the profession? Well, they say of the other professions that there is always room at the top. Journalism is just the reverse. The room is all at the bottom—easy to enter, hard to achieve, impossible to leave. It is all bottom, no top.” Sewell nodded, smiled attractively in spite of his swollen face and his unsightly teeth, and went back to his work.
“He’s sober,” said Kittredge when he was out of hearing, “so his story is pretty sure to be the talk of Park Row tomorrow.”
Howard was astonished at the cheerful, businesslike point of view of these two educated and apparently civilised young men as to the tragedies of life. He had shuddered at Kittredge’s story of the man squeezed to death by the snake. Sewell’s story, so graphically outlined, filled him with horror, made it a struggle for him to conceal his feelings.
“I suppose