Under Orders: The story of a young reporter

“Who are you? and what do you mean by making such a row?” demanded the roundsman who led the charging party, as he laid his hand heavily on Myles’ shoulder.

“A reporter from the Phonograph, who was ordered to ride on that car, and means to if he can fight his way to it,” was the answer.

“I might have known it,” said the officer, with a resigned air. “You reporters do beat the world for getting us cops into trouble. The idea of a chap like you undertaking to fight that whole crowd! Nobody but a crank or a reporter would think of such a thing. It’s a good thing to carry out orders when you can, but it’s a better to use common-sense and not attempt to undertake impossibilities.”

“I was only trying to find out whether it was an impossibility or not,” laughed Myles.

While they thus talked the officer led his party of police back to the car. It had stopped while its defenders charged the mob, and now it again started ahead. Hardly had it got into motion when, with a wild yell, the mob came charging back upon it, and with a tremendous crash the car was lifted from the track and hurled upon its side. It was a full minute before Myles succeeded in clearing himself from the wreck and again scrambling to his feet. As he was rubbing the dirt from his eyes, and thinking what a particularly lively occupation this business of reporting was, he heard a familiar voice call out:

“I say, new man – I don’t remember your name – why don’t you come up here? You can get an elegant view of the scrimmage.”

Myles could hardly believe it, but nevertheless it was really Billings, as beautifully neat and clean as ever, perched up on the side of the overturned car, calmly surveying the scene of tumult, and apparently unconscious of the missiles and occasional pistol-shots that flew past him.

Myles clambered up to a position beside his temporary chief, exclaiming as he did so:

“How on earth do you happen to be here just now! and why do you choose such an exposed place?”

“Oh, I just came down here with the inspector to see the fun, as we heard the situation was becoming interesting. I chose this place because I’m a reporter and I can see better what to report from up here than I could down there in the crowd.”

“But you are in great danger of getting hit up here.”

“Oh, no, they wouldn’t hit me. See how scared they are if I only just look at them.”

Billings had an open note-book in his hand, and Myles saw with amazement that whenever he fixed his eyes upon any particular person or group in the crowd, and pretended to be taking notes in his book, these persons immediately turned their backs or slunk away.

“Well, that beats all!” he exclaimed. “What do you do and how do you do it?”

“I don’t do any thing, only look at ’em. They think, though, that I am drawing their pictures for one of the illustrated papers, and they don’t want to be spotted by having their likenesses printed.”

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 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 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.”

All this was very consoling to Myles. It gave him a happier feeling than he had known since he learned of the family troubles that caused him to leave college and take up this business of reporting. Of the unassuming, pleasant-faced fellow who thus made friendly advances toward him he soon discovered that he was the leading reporter on the paper, and that there was rarely a number of it issued that did not contain a column of interesting matter furnished by him.

At the conclusion of their little chat, Rolfe, who was evidently pleased with Myles, introduced him to several of the other fellows, and the young reporter felt that at last he was really started on his career.

On this day he had an experience of the curious contrasts that make up a reporter’s life. He was first sent to find out if it were true that two sets of triplets had been born the night before in a great east-side tenement-house. Then he attended a brilliant wedding in Grace Church, and soon afterward a large funeral. All of these assignments were given him by Mr. Haxall with many injunctions as to their importance, and charges to obtain and write out every possible item of interesting information concerning them. Myles worked faithfully and prepared what he considered a remarkably full and good report of each case. To the wedding and funeral he gave particular attention, procuring a full list of the guests at one, the mourners at the other, and an elaborate description of the floral displays at both.

For all this, in the next day’s paper the interesting triplets were not mentioned, the wedding was disposed of in a paragraph, and the third report was condensed to “The funeral of Mr. Blank took place yesterday from the Church of the Apostles.”

So Myles remarked to Van Cleef: “I can’t see the use of putting a fellow to all the trouble of getting these stories and then not printing them. I could have written the three lines they did furnish without leaving the office.”

Van Cleef answered: “That is the editor’s lookout, and not yours. So long as they pay you for your trouble you have no right to complain.”

Myles did get one item into the paper, though, and it was printed in full just as he wrote it, at which he was greatly pleased. During the day he had found time to run down to the Mills Building and see the Mr. Leigh mentioned in his note of that morning. This gentleman gave him a bit of news regarding certain important railway changes that was of the greatest interest to all Wall Street men, and the Phonograph was the only paper in which it appeared the next morning. Thus it was what is known to reporters as a “beat” on all the other papers, and for obtaining it Myles received great credit. He afterward obtained a number of just such “beats” from the same source, and gained quite a reputation by them; but he was wise enough to say nothing of how he got hold of them.

So the week passed quickly and busily, and at its end, though he had got but one item of any account into the paper, Myles felt that he had learned more than during any ten preceding weeks of his life, and he was already a most enthusiastic reporter.

On Saturday morning he received from the cashier a little brown envelope containing ten dollars, which, as it was the first money he had ever earned, gave him a feeling of manly independence such as he had never before felt. That evening he went home to spend Sunday, for, as every Phonograph reporter was entitled to have for his own one day out of the week, Myles had chosen that as his “day off.”

The boy had felt manly and self-important the week before, when he went home as a college student and captain of the “‘Varsity” crew; but he felt doubly so now as a self-supporting man of business, even if he was only a reporter.

His mother knew his step as he approached the house, and was waiting for him at the open door.

“How could you, Myles!” she exclaimed, between kisses and hugs. “How could you become a horrid, common reporter?”

“I couldn’t, mother. I mean to be a most uncommon reporter, and not horrid in any sense of the word.”

“But what shall I tell people, when they find out that you have left college and ask what business you have gone into?”

“Tell them the truth, mother, and I’ll back you up in it,” replied Myles, laughing.

As he made his way to the big chair in which his father sat, the blind man said:

“It is good to hear your voice again, my boy, and a great relief to hear you speak so cheerfully of your new business. I was afraid you had gone into it in a fit of desperation, and not from choice.”

“Well, to tell the truth, I did go into it in somewhat that way, father, but now I mean to stay in it from a real liking for it, and because I can already see that it may lead to many much better things. But you are not ashamed to have me a reporter, as mother seems to be, are you, sir?”

“Not a bit of it, my son; I am not ashamed to have you in any honest business; only reporters always seemed to me an annoying and somewhat mischievous set of fellows.”

Here Mrs. Manning broke in with:

“Oh, Myles, how can you say that I could ever be ashamed of any thing you did? You know I couldn’t; but then some things are so different from others.”

“So they are, mother,” replied Myles, soberly; “you never said a truer thing in your life.” Then, turning again to his father, he added: “That’s just it, sir. You never knew much about reporters, any more than the rest of us did. I am beginning to learn something about them, though, and to see them as they really are, and I shall try to open the family eyes to look at them as I do. Oh, father, I forgot! I didn’t mean to use those words. We really do mean to open your eyes, though, some time, so that you will see reporters as well as all the other good fellows who come in your way; see if we don’t. But where is Kate?”

“Getting your supper ready,” replied Mrs. Manning.

“Good for her! She appreciates the needs of a fellow who has been mealing in restaurants and at lunch-counters for a week.”

Just then Kate Manning entered the room with a warm welcome for her brother and the announcement that his supper waited.

“Well, it sha’n’t get tired waiting for me,” exclaimed Myles; “but, Kate, what is your opinion of reporters?”

“I never knew much about any except one reporter,” was the smiling reply; “but if they all turn out as well as he did I should think it was the most splendid business a young man could go into.”

“Who was that?” asked Mrs. Manning and Myles together.

“Charles Dickens,” answered the Vassar girl, “who is said to have collected most of the material he afterward used so wonderfully while he was only a reporter.”

“Good for you, Kate!” shouted Myles. “I always said you were a brick; but now I know that you are a gold brick, and solid right through. Let’s go to supper.”

After supper Myles sat down to convince his family that reporters were a generally misunderstood and unappreciated race, and that, having the opportunity to become one, he would have been worse than foolish had he thrown it away. He repeated all of Van Cleef’s arguments, and added to them the small items of personal experience that he had already gained. In short, he was so enthusiastic, and waxed so eloquent over his theme, that he succeeded in completely reversing the opinions formerly held by his parents. As for Kate, she needed no convincing, and long before he finished she exclaimed:

“If I were not a girl I believe I would rather be a literary man than any thing else in the world, except an artist, and I’d begin by being a reporter too.”

Mrs. Manning was most pleased by what Myles told her about the newspapers making of their reporters agents for the distribution of charity to the people in distress whom they discovered and wrote about.

Mr. Manning said:

“Well, Myles, any business that can so arouse your enthusiasm must possess merit, and I only hope you will stick to this one until you win success from it. By the way, what is your present ambition? Is it still to enter politics?”

“I think my present ambition is to get on space,” replied Myles, laughing. “Then I should like to be a special or foreign correspondent. If ever I get that far, then I will look ahead and see what comes next.”

The next day, as on the preceding Sunday, Myles accompanied his sister Kate to church. Somehow or other his changed conditions of life had become known throughout the little community, and many of those who had gazed admiringly at Myles Manning, the captain of the “‘Varsity” crew, the Sunday before, now looked at him with curiosity as a reporter. The former they could understand, but the latter was something to be wondered at as though it belonged to a strange and uncommon species of being.