I had a hard enough time getting information, even from those who were able to talk. Citizens from the nearby town and those who had not been injured were too much frightened by the catastrophe4 or were lending a hand to do what they could ... they were not interested in a reporter or his needs. A group carrying the injured to the platform resented my intrusion, and others searching the meadows for those who had run far away until they fell were too busy to bother with me. Still I pressed on. I went from one to another asking who they were, receiving in some cases mumbled5 replies, in others merely groans6. With those laid out on the platform awaiting the arrival of the wreck-train I did not have so much trouble: they were helpless and there were none to attend them.
“Oh, can’t you let me alone!” exclaimed one man whose face was a black crust. “Can’t you see I’m dying?”
“Isn’t there some one who will want to know?” I asked softly. It struck me all at once that this was a duty these people owed to everybody, their families and friends included.
“You’re right,” said the man with cracked lips, after a long silence, and he gave his name and an account of his experiences.
I went to others and to each who was able to understand I put the same question. It won me the toleration of those who were watching me. All except the station agent seemed to see that I was entitled to do this, and he could have been soothed7 with a bribe8 if I had thought of it.
As I have said, however, once the wreck-train rolled in surgeons and nurses leaped down, and men brought litters to carry away the wounded. In a moment the scene changed; the authorities of the road turned a frowning face upon inquiry9 and I was only too glad that I had thought to make my inquiries10 early. However, I managed in the excitement to install myself in the train just as it was leaving so as to reach Alton with the injured and dead and witness the transfer. Some died en route, others moaned in a soul-racking way. I was beside myself with pity and excitement, and yet I could think only of the manner in which I would describe, describe, describe, once the time came. Just now I scarcely dared to make notes.
At Alton the scene transferred itself gradually to the Alton General Hospital, where in spite of the protests of railroad officials I demanded as my right that I be allowed to enter and was finally admitted. Once in the hospital I completed my canvass11, being new assisted by doctors and nurses, who seemed to like my appearance and to respect my calling, possibly because they saw themselves mentioned in the morning paper. Having interviewed every injured man, obtaining his name and address where possible, I finally went out, and at the door encountered a great throng12 of people, men, women and children, who were weeping and clamoring for information. One glance, and I realized for all time what these tragedies of the world really mean to those dependent. The white drawn13 faces, the liquid appealing eyes, tragedy written in large human characters.
“Do you know whether my John is in there?” cried one woman.
“Your John?” I replied sympathetically. “Will you tell me who your John is?”
“John Taylor. He works on that road. He was over there.”
“Wait a moment,” I said, reaching down in my pocket for my pad and reading the names. “No, he isn’t here.”
The woman heaved a great sigh.
Others now crowded about me. In a moment I was the center of a clamoring throng. All wanted to know, each before the other.
“Wait a moment,” I said, as an inspiration seized me. I raised my hand, and a silence fell over the little group.
“You people want to know who is injured,” I called. “I have a list here which I made over at the wreck and here. It is almost complete. If you will be quiet I will read it.”
A hush14 fell over the crowd. I stepped to one side, where there was a broad balustrade, mounted it and held up my paper.
“Edward Reeves,” I began, “224 South Elm Street, Alton. Arms, legs and face seriously burned. He may die.”
“Oh!” came a cry from a woman in the crowd.
“Charles Wingate, 415 North Tenth Street, St. Louis.”
No voice answered this.
“Richard Shortwood, 193 Thomas Street, Alton.”
No answer.
I read on down the list of forty or more, and at each name there was a stir and in some instances cries. As I stepped down two or three people drew near and thanked me. A flush of gratification swept over me. For once I felt that I had done something of which I could honestly be proud.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in gathering16 outside details. I hunted up the local paper, which was getting out an extra, and got permission to read its earlier account. I went to the depot17 to see how the trains ran, and by accident ran into Wood. In spite of my inability to send a telegram the city editor had seen fit to take my advice and send him. He was intensely wrought18 up over how to illustrate19 it all, and I am satisfied that my description of what had occurred did not ease him much. I accompanied him back to the hospital to see if there was anything there he wished to illustrate, and then described to him the horror as I saw it. Together we visited the morgue of the hospital, where already fourteen naked bodies had been laid out in a row, bodies from which the flames had eaten great patches of skin, and I saw that there was nothing now by which they could be identified. Who were they? I asked myself. What had they been, done? The nothingness of man! They looked so commonplace, so unimportant, so like dead flies or beetles20. Curiously enough, the burns which had killed them seemed in some cases pitifully small, little patches cut out of the skin as if by a pair of shears21, revealing the raw muscles beneath. All those dead were stark22 naked, men who had been alive and curiously gaping23 only two or three hours before. For once Dick was hushed; he did not theorize or pretend; he was silent, pale. “It’s hell, I tell you,” was all he said.
On the way back on the train I wrote. In my eagerness to give a full account I impressed the services of Dick, who wrote for me such phases of the thing as he had seen. At the office I reported briefly24 to Mitchell, giving that solemn salamander a short account of what had occurred. He told me to write it at full length, as much as I pleased. It was about seven in the evening when we reached the office, and at eleven I was still writing and not nearly through. I asked Hartung to look out for some food for me about midnight, and then went on with my work. By that time the whole paper had become aware of the importance of the thing I was doing; I was surrounded and observed at times by gossips and representatives of out-of-town newspapers, who had come here to get transcripts25 of the tale. The telegraph editor came in from time to time to get additional pages of what I was writing in order to answer inquiries, and told me he thought it was fine. The night editor called to ask questions, and the reporters present sat about and eyed me curiously. I was a lion for once. The realization26 of my importance set me up. I wrote with vim27, vanity, a fine frenzy28.
By one o’clock I was through. Then after it was all over the other reporters and newspaper men gathered about me—Hazard, Bellairs, Benson, Hartung, David the railroad man, and several others.
“This is going to be a great beat for you,” said Hazard generously. “We’ve got the Post licked, all right. They didn’t hear of it until three o’clock this afternoon, but they sent five men out there and two artists. But the best they can have is a cold account. You saw it.”
“That’s right,” echoed Bellairs. “You’ve got ’em licked. That’ll tickle29 Mac, all right. He loves to beat the other Sunday papers.” It was Saturday night.
“Tobe’s tickled30 sick,” confided31 Hartung cautiously. “You’ve saved his bacon. He hates a big story because he’s always afraid he won’t cover it right and it always worries him, but he knows you’ve got ’em beat. McCullagh’ll give him credit for it, all right.”
“Oh, that big stiff!” I said scornfully, referring to Tobias.
“Something always saves that big stiff,” said Hazard bitterly. “He plays in luck, by George! He hasn’t any brains.”
I went in to report to my superior after a time, and told him very humbly32 that I thought I had written all I could down here but that there was considerable more up there which I was sure should be personally covered by me and that I ought to go back.
“The big stiff!” I thought as I went out.
That night I stayed at a downtown hotel, since I was now charging everything to the paper and wanted to be called early, and after a feverish34 sleep arose at six and started out again. I was as excited and cheerful as though I had suddenly become a millionaire. I stopped at the nearest corner and bought a Globe, a Republic, and a Post-Dispatch, and proceeded to contrast the various accounts, scanning the columns to see how much my stuff made and theirs, and measuring the atmosphere and quality. To me, of course, mine seemed infinitely35 the best. There it was, occupying the whole front page, with cuts, and nearly all of the second page, with cuts! I could hardly believe my eyes. Dick’s illustrations were atrocious, a mess, no spirit or meaning to them, just great blotches36 of weird37 machinery38 and queer figures. He had lost himself in an effort to make a picture of the original crumpling39 wreck, and he had done it very badly. At once, and for the first time, he began to diminish as an artist in my estimation. “Why, this doesn’t look anything like it at all! He hasn’t drawn what I would have drawn,” and I began to see or suspect that art might mean something besides clothes and manner. “Why didn’t he show those dead men, that crowd clamoring about the main entrance of the hospital?” The illustrations in the other papers seemed much better.
As for myself, I saw no least flaw in my work. It was all all right, especially the amount of space given me. Splendid! “My!” I said to myself vainly, “to think I should have written all this, and single-handed, between the hours of five and midnight!” It seemed astonishing, a fine performance. I picked out the most striking passages first and read them, my throat swelling40 and contracting uncomfortably, my heart beating proudly, and then I went over the whole of the article word by word. To me in my vain mood it read amazingly well. I felt that it was full of fire and pathos41 and done in the right way, with facts and color. And, to cap it all and fill my cup of satisfaction to the brim, this same paper contained an editorial calling attention to the facts that the Globe had triumphed in the matter of reporting this story and that the skill of the Globe-Democrat could always be counted upon in a crisis like this to handle such things correctly, and commiserating42 the other poor journals on their helplessness when faced by such trying circumstances. The Globe was always best and first, according to this statement. I felt that at last I had justified43 the opinion of the editor-in-chief in sending for me.
Bursting with vanity, I returned to Alton. Despite the woes44 of others I could not help glorying in the fact that nearly the whole city, a good part of it anyhow, must be reading my account of the wreck. It was anonymous45, of course, and they could not know who had done it, but just the same I had done it whether they knew it or not and I exulted46. This was the chance, apparently47, that I had been longing48 for, and I had not failed.
This second day at Alton was not so important as I had fancied it might be, but it had its phases. On my arrival I took one more look at the morgue, where by then thirty-one dead bodies were laid out in a row, and then began to look after those who were likely to recover. I visited some of the families of the afflicted49, who talked of damage suits. At my leisure I wrote a full account of just how the case stood, and wired it. I felt that to finish the thing properly I should stay until another day, which really was not necessary, and decided to do so without consulting my editor.
But by nightfall, after my copy had been filed, I realized my mistake, for I received a telegram to return. The local correspondent could attend to the remaining details. On the way back I began to feel a qualm of conscience in regard to my conduct. I had been taking a great deal for granted, as I knew, in thus attempting to act without orders. My city editor might think I was getting a “swelled head,” as no doubt I was, and so complain to McCullagh. I knew he did not like me, and this gave him a good excuse to complain. Besides, my second day’s story, now that it was gone, did not seem to be so important; I might as well have carried it in and saved the expense of telegraphing it. I felt that I had failed in this; also that mature consideration might decide that I had failed on the first story also. I began to think that by my own attitude I had worked up all the excitement in the office that Saturday night and that my editor-in-chief would realize it now and so be disappointed in me. Suppose, I thought, when I reached the office McCullagh were dissatisfied and should fire me—then what? Where would I go, where get another job as good as this? I thought of my various follies50 and my past work here. Perhaps with this last error my sins were now to find me out. “Pride goeth before destruction,” I quoted, “and a haughty51 spirit before a fall.”
By eight o’clock, when I reached the office, I was thoroughly52 depressed53 and hurried in, expecting the worst. Of course the train had been late—had to be on this occasion!—and I did not reach the office in time to take an evening assignment. Mitchell was out, which left me nothing to do but worry. Only Hartung was there, and he seemed rather glum54. According to him, Tobe had seemed dissatisfied with my wishing to stay up there. Why had I been so bold, I asked myself, so silly, so self-hypnotized? I took up an evening paper and retired55 gloomily to a corner to wait. When Mitchell arrived at nine he looked at me but said nothing. As I was about to go out to get something to eat Hartung came in and said: “Mr. Mitchell wants to speak to you.”
My heart sank. I went in and stood before him.
“You called for me?”
“Yes. Mr. McCullagh wants to see you.”
“It’s all over,” I thought. “I can tell by his manner. What a fool I was to build such high hopes on that story!”
I went out to the hall and walked nervously56 to the office of the chief, which was at the front end of the hall. I was so depressed I could have cried. To think that all my fine dreams were to have such an end!
That Napoleon-like creature was sitting in his little office, his chin on his chest, a sea of papers about him. He did not turn when I entered, and my heart grew heavier. He was angry with me! I could see it! He kept his back to me, which was to show me that I was not wanted, done for! At last he wheeled.
“You called for me, Mr. McCullagh?” I murmured.
“Mmm, yuss, yuss!” he mumbled in his thick, gummy, pursy way. His voice always sounded as though it were being obstructed57 by something leathery or woolly. “I wanted to say,” he added, covering me with a single glance, “that I liked that story you wrote, very much indeed. A fine piece of work, a fine piece of work! I like to recognize a good piece of work when I see it. I have raised your salary five dollars, and I would like to give you this.” He reached in his pocket, drew out a roll and handed over a yellow twenty-dollar bill.
I could have dropped where I stood. The reaction was tremendous after my great depression. I felt as though I should burst with joy, but instead I stood there, awed58 by this generosity59.
“I’m very much obliged to you, Mr. McCullagh,” I finally managed to say. “I thank you very much. I’ll do the best I can.”
“It was a good piece of work,” he repeated mumblingly60, “a good piece of work,” and then slowly wheeled back to his desk.
I turned and walked briskly out.
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收听单词发音
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1
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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2
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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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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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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7
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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8
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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12
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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14
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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15
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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18
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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21
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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23
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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24
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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transcripts
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| n.抄本（ transcript的名词复数 ）；转写本；文字本；副本 | |
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26
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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27
vim
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| n.精力，活力 | |
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28
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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29
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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30
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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31
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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32
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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overdo
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| vt.把...做得过头，演得过火 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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37
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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38
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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39
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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40
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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41
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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42
commiserating
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的现在分词 ) | |
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43
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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44
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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45
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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46
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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48
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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49
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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51
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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52
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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53
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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54
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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55
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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56
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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57
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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58
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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mumblingly
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| 说话含糊地，咕哝地 | |
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