Don’t hurry.”
“Mr. Dobson’s never long-winded. I’ll be right back.”
Picking up the phone, Ted wondered what his editor might want. He hoped he hadn’t pulled some boner. Although Mr. Dobson was a very considerate man, he never put up with slipshod work.
“Hello, Mr. Dobson.”
“Hello, Ted. Something has come along that I didn’t know about earlier. I’ve just learned that Mr. Prentice—you know, Albert Prentice, head of the transit union—will be in Stanton tomorrow. Of course he’ll be here in Forestdale for the court hearing on Friday morning, but that makes it too late for our Friday issue. I thought if we could get an interview with him tomorrow morning, it might give us something to peg a story on.”
“You mean a telephone interview?”
“Well, no, Ted. I prefer a personal interview when the matter is important enough, and this one is.”
“Then you want me to run down to Stanton tomorrow morning, Mr. Dobson?”
“I wish you would, Ted. You know how difficult it is for me to get away on a Thursday morning, and the two holidays have played hob with our printing schedule already. Do you suppose Nelson would drive you?”
“He’s here now. Hold on, and I’ll ask him.”
Ted went to the foot of the stairs and called up to Nelson. “Want to drive down to Stanton in the morning?”
“Sure. O.K. by me,” Nelson answered, and started downstairs to hear what it was all about.
“Yes, he will, Mr. Dobson.”
“Fine! It makes it more convenient for me if I can keep my car here, and of course we’ll pay Nelson the usual expense allowance and hourly rate. I’ve already arranged for the interview at nine o’clock at the Marquette Hotel.”
Suddenly Ted began to feel a little nervous. Interviewing people wasn’t exactly a novelty to him, for he frequently made telephone calls at the Town Crier office, and lately, during the absence of Carl Allison, the newspaper’s regular reporter, he had interviewed a few of the townspeople. But this was different. Mr. Prentice was a stranger, and this was a very important story. It wasn’t quite as easy as walking up to the fire chief, whom he had known for years, and asking if there was anything new.
“Any special instructions, Mr. Dobson?”
“You’re familiar with the general situation, Ted. Of course the most important question is whether or not there’s going to be a trucking strike, and what form it might take, though I don’t think you’ll be able to get a clear-cut answer to that. And of course everybody’s interested in whether there’s any truth to the charge that the union has a kick-back arrangement with Jed Myers, even though he’s now serving a prison sentence for extortion. That may come out in the court hearing Friday morning, but Mr. Prentice’s comments would be interesting right now.
“I’ve looked through our files here at the office, but there doesn’t seem to be anything that would help you. The city daily paper would be more useful. Do you have back copies of it there?”
“I’m pretty sure I do, but if not, I’ll find them somewhere.”
“Then check back through the last few weeks and get as familiar with the situation as you can. It doesn’t pay to go into an interview poorly informed. That’s about all I can think of, Ted. Phone in your story as soon as you get it.”
“All right, Mr. Dobson, I’ll do my best.”
Hanging up the phone, Ted turned to Nelson. “Nine o’clock interview,” he informed him. “That means we get on the road by six-thirty.”
“Six-thirty! Then what’s the use of going to bed at all?”
“Well, I don’t suppose you have to come yourself. I could rent your car. Or maybe I ought to think about getting a car of my own. You must get tired of acting as my chauffeur.”
Nelson looked crestfallen. “Oh, come on, Ted. You wouldn’t do that, would you, and spoil all my fun?” He thought about it a moment. “But maybe Mr. Dobson’s going to get tired of this arrangement before long. Why should he pay two of us, when one man could do it alone?”
“Don’t worry about Mr. Dobson. He’s pretty shrewd. He knows you’ve come in mighty handy several times, apart from driving the car.”
Nelson grinned. “All right, then. Six-thirty. What are you going to do now, Ted?”
“I want to look through the old papers in the basement, and pick up all I can on this trucking strike. Want to help me?”
“Heck, no! That sounds like work. Anyway, it looks to me like these strikes are phony.”
“How do you mean?”
“Almost every time there’s a strike, or the threat of a strike, both management and labor know ahead of time on just about what terms they’re going to have to settle. But they both have to show their muscles, make a lot of threats, and maybe go out on a short strike to show they really meant it. They couldn’t just quietly come to an agreement. The public might not realize how important the trucking business is, unless the trucks didn’t move every now and then, or there was a threat that they wouldn’t. So labor asks for twice as much as it expects to get, and management concedes only half as much as it knows it will have to concede. Then after they’ve had a big enough rumpus, they settle on the same terms they could have at the beginning, and everybody’s happy. The union officers can show their members what they got for them, and management can show the stockholders how much it saved them, and they’ve all gotten their names in the papers.”
“You think that’s all there is to it—just acting important?”
“Well, no.” Nelson looked thoughtful. “I think sometimes they really do want a strike—both management and labor. Maybe the inventory’s running high, and management would like to cut down without actually firing anyone. And maybe labor wouldn’t mind a little extra holiday—have you noticed how many contracts expire just when the hunting or fishing seasons open?”
“Then you think there won’t be any strike, because this isn’t the hunting or fishing season?”
“I didn’t say that. I suppose the trucking business does slow down after Christmas, and I suppose the workers wouldn’t mind a little extra time off around the holidays.” He studied Ted’s face for a moment. “Which side are you on—management or labor?”
Ted laughed. “I’d like to say I’m on the side of truth, but sometimes I wonder if there is such a thing. It often seems to be pretty much a matter of where you’re standing. After all, your finger looks bigger than a barn, if you hold it right in front of your eyes.”
“But a finger isn’t bigger than a barn, Ted, no matter how it looks.”
“Maybe not. But if somebody pinches it, that finger’s going to hurt more than the barn.”
“How about it, Ted—do you think the unions get a fair shake in the papers? They often complain that they don’t.”
“I
