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 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 reporters in the city, as well as one of the coolest and pluckiest fellows in a tight 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 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
