However, I made the best of my time reading, and finally went out to supper alone, returning as quickly as possible in case there should be an assignment for me. When I returned I found my name on the book and I set out to interview a Chicago minister who was visiting in the city. Evidently this city editor thought it would be easier for me to interview a Chicago minister than any other. I found my man, after some knocking at wrong doors, and got nothing worth a stick—mere religious drive—and returned with my “story,” which was never used.
While I was writing it up, however, the youth of the Jovian curls returned from an assignment, hung up his little wrinkled overcoat and sat down in great comfort next me. His evening’s work was apparently4 futile5 for he took out his pipe, rapped it sonorously6 on his chair, lighted it and then picked up an evening paper.
“What’s doing, Jock, up at police headquarters?” called the little man over his shoulder.
“Nothing much, Bob,” replied the other, without looking up.
“By jing, you police reporters have a cinch!” jested the first. “All you do is sit around up there at headquarters and get the news off the police blotters, while we poor devils are chasing all over town. We have to earn our money.” His voice had a peculiarly healthy, gay and bantering7 ring to it.
“That’s no joke,” put in a long, lean, spectacled individual who was sitting in another corner. “I’ve been tramping all over south St. Louis, looking for a confounded robbery story.”
“Well, you’ve got long legs, Benson,” retorted the jovial8 Hazard. “You can stand it. Now I’m not so well fixed9 that way. Bellairs, there, ought to be given a chance at that. He wouldn’t be getting so fat, by jing!”
The one called Jock also answered to the name of Bellairs.
“You people don’t do so much,” he replied, grinning cheerfully. “If you had my job you wouldn’t be sitting here reading a newspaper. It takes work to be a police reporter.”
“Is that so?” queried10 the little man banteringly. “You’re proof of it, I suppose? Why, you never did a good day’s work in your life!”
“Give us a match, Bob, and shut up,” grinned the other. “You’re too noisy. I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me yet tonight.”
“I got your work! Is she over sixteen? Wish I had your job.”
Jock folded up some copy paper and put it into his pocket and walked into the next room, where the little assistant was toiling11 away over the night’s grist of news.
“It’s pretty tough,” said the spirited Hazard, turning to me, “to go out on an assignment and then get nothing. I’d rather work hard over a good story any day, wouldn’t you?”
“That’s the way I feel about it,” I replied. “It’s not much fun, sitting around. By the way, do you know whose desk this is? I’ve been sitting at it all evening.”
“It doesn’t belong to anybody at present. You might as well take it if you like it. There’s a vacant one over there next to Benson’s, if you like that better.” He waved toward the tall awkward scribe in the corner.
“This is good enough,” I replied.
“Take your choice. There’s no trouble about desks just now. The staff’s way down anyhow. You’re a stranger here, aren’t you?”
“Yes; I only came down from Chicago yesterday.”
“What paper’d jeh work on up there?”
“The Globe and News,” I answered, lying about the latter in order to give myself a better standing13 than otherwise I might have.
“They’re good papers, aren’t they?”
“Yes, pretty fair. The News has the largest evening circulation.”
“We have some good papers here too. This is one of the biggest. The Post-Dispatch is pretty good too; it’s the biggest evening paper.”
“Do you know how much circulation this paper has?” I inquired.
“Oh, about fifty thousand, I should say. That’s not so much, compared to Chicago circulation, but it’s pretty big for down here. We have the biggest circulation of any paper in the Southwest. McCullagh’s one of the greatest editors in this country, outside of Dana in New York, the greatest of any. If McCullagh were in New York he’d be bigger than he is, by jing!”
“Do you run many big news stories?”
“Sometimes; not often. The Globe goes very light on local news. They play up the telegraph on this paper because we go into Texas and Arkansas and Louisiana and all these other States around here. We use $400,000 worth of telegraph news here every year,” and he said it as though he were part owner of the paper. I liked him very much.
I opened my eyes at this news and thought dubiously14 of it in relation to my own work. It did not promise much for a big feature, on which I might spread myself.
We talked on, becoming more and more friendly. In spite of the city editor, whom I did not like, I now began to like this place, although I could feel that these men were more or less browbeaten15, held down and frozen. The room was much too quiet for a healthy Western reportorial room, the atmosphere too chill.
We talked of St. Louis, its size (450,000), its principal hotels, the Southern, the Lindell and the La Clede (I learned that its oldest and best, the Planter, had recently been torn down and was going to be rebuilt some day), what were the chief lines of news. It seemed that fires, murders, defalcations, scandals were here as elsewhere the great things, far over-shadowing most things of national and international import. Recently a tremendous defalcation16 had occurred, and this new acquaintance of mine had been working on it, had “handled it alone,” as he said. Like all citizens of an American city he was pro-St. Louis, anxious to say a good word for it. The finest portion of it, he told me, was in the west end. I should see the wonderful new residences and places. There was a great park here, Forrest, over fourteen hundred acres in size, a wonderful thing. A new bridge was building in north St. Louis and would soon be completed, one that would relieve traffic on the Eads Bridge and help St. Louis to grow. There was a small city over the river in Illinois, East St. Louis, and a great Terminal Railroad Association which controlled all the local railroad facilities and taxed each trunk line six dollars a car to enter and each passenger twenty-five cents. “It’s a great graft17 and a damned shame, but what can you do?” was his comment. Traffic on the Mississippi was not so much now, owing to the railroads that paralleled it, but still it was interesting.
The already familiar noise of a roll-top desk broke in upon us from the next room, and I noticed a hush18 fall on the room. What an atmosphere! I thought. After a few moments of silence my new friend turned to me and whispered very softly:
“That’s Tobe Mitchell, the city editor, coming in. He’s a proper ——, as you’ll find.” He smiled wisely and began scribbling19 again.
“He didn’t look so pleasant to me,” I replied as softly.
“I’ve quit here twice,” he whispered. “The next time I go I won’t come back. I don’t have to stay here, and he knows it. I can get a job any day on the Chronicle, and wouldn’t have to work so hard either. That’s an evening paper. I stay here because I like a morning paper better, that’s all. There’s more to it. Everything’s so scrappy and kicked together on an evening paper. But he doesn’t say much to me any more, although he doesn’t like me. You’d think we were a lot of kids, and this place a schoolroom.” He frowned.
We dropped into silence again. I did not like this thought of difficulty thrust upon me. What a pity a man like McEnnis was not here!
“He doesn’t look like much of a newspaper man to me,” I observed.
“And he isn’t either. McCullagh has him here because he saved his life once in a fight somewhere, down in Texas, I think—or that’s what they tell me.”
We sat and read; the sound of city life below had died out and one could hear the scratching of reporters’ pens. Assignments were written up and turned in, and then the reporters idled about, dangling20 their legs from spring-back chairs, smoking pipes and whispering. As the clock registered eleven-thirty the round body of Mitchell appeared in the doorway21, his fair-tinted visage darkened by a faint scowl22.
“You boys can go now,” he pronounced solemnly.
All arose, I among them, and went to a closet where were our hats and overcoats. I was tired, and this atmosphere had depressed23 me. What a life! Had I come down here for this? The thought of the small news end which the local life received depressed me also. I could not see how I was to make out.
I went down to a rear elevator, the only one running at this time of night, and came out into the dark street, where a carriage was waiting. I assumed that this must be for the famous editor. It looked so comfortable and sedate24, waiting at the door in the darkness for an editor who, as I later learned, might not choose to leave until two. I went on to my little room at the hotel, filled with ideas of how, some day, I should be a great editor and have a carriage waiting for me. Yes; I felt that I was destined25 for a great end. For the present I must be content to look around for a modest room where I could sleep and bide26 my time and opportunity.
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1
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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industriously
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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7
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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10
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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11
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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14
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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browbeaten
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| v.（以言辞或表情）威逼，恫吓( browbeat的过去分词 ) | |
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defalcation
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| n.盗用公款，挪用公款，贪污 | |
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graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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18
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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26
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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