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diff --git a/old/62995-0.txt b/old/62995-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 090e904..0000000 --- a/old/62995-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17710 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, A Book About Myself, by Theodore Dreiser - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: A Book About Myself - - -Author: Theodore Dreiser - - - -Release Date: August 24, 2020 [eBook #62995] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF*** - - -E-text prepared by ellinora, Barry Abrahamsen, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/bookaboutmyself00drei - - -Transcriber’s note: - - Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores - (_italics_). - - - - - -A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF - - -[Illustration] - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - BOOKS BY - - THEODORE DREISER - - SISTER CARRIE - JENNIE GERHARDT - THE FINANCIER - THE TITAN - THE GENIUS - A TRAVELER AT FORTY - A HOOSIER HOLIDAY - PLAYS OF THE NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL - THE HAND OF THE POTTER - FREE AND OTHER STORIES - TWELVE MEN - HEY RUB-A-DUB-DUB - A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - -A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF - -THEODORE DREISER - - - - - - -Boni and Liveright -Publishers New York - -Copyright, 1922, by -Boni and Liveright, Inc. -—————— -All rights reserved - -First edition November, 1922 -Second edition December, 1922 - -Printed in the United States of America - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF - - - - - CHAPTER I - - -DURING the year 1890 I had been formulating my first dim notion as to -what it was I wanted to do in life. For two years and more I had been -reading Eugene Field’s “Sharps and Flats,” a column he wrote daily for -the Chicago _Daily News_, and through this, the various phases of life -which he suggested in a humorous though at times romantic way, I was -beginning to suspect, vaguely at first, that I wanted to write, possibly -something like that. Nothing else that I had so far read—novels, plays, -poems, histories—gave me quite the same feeling for constructive thought -as did the matter of his daily notes, poems, and aphorisms, which were -of Chicago principally, whereas nearly all others dealt with foreign -scenes and people. - -But this comment on local life here and now, these trenchant bits on -local street scenes, institutions, characters, functions, all moved me -as nothing hitherto had. To me Chicago at this time seethed with a -peculiarly human or realistic atmosphere. It is given to some cities, as -to some lands, to suggest romance, and to me Chicago did that hourly. It -sang, I thought, and in spite of what I deemed my various troubles—small -enough as I now see them—I was singing with it. These seemingly drear -neighborhoods through which I walked each day, doing collecting for an -easy-payment furniture company, these ponderous regions of large homes -where new-wealthy packers and manufacturers dwelt, these curiously -foreign neighborhoods of almost all nationalities; and, lastly, that -great downtown area, surrounded on two sides by the river, on the east -by the lake, and on the south by railroad yards and stations, the whole -set with these new tall buildings, the wonder of the western world, -fascinated me. Chicago was so young, so blithe, so new, I thought. -Florence in its best days must have been something like this to young -Florentines, or Venice to the young Venetians. - -Here was a city which had no traditions but was making them, and this -was the very thing that every one seemed to understand and rejoice in. -Chicago was like no other city in the world, so said they all. Chicago -would outstrip every other American city, New York included, and become -the first of all American, if not European or world, cities.... This -dream many hundreds of thousands of its citizens held dear. Chicago -would be first in wealth, first in beauty, first in art achievement. A -great World’s Fair was even then being planned that would bring people -from all over the world. The Auditorium, the new Great Northern Hotel, -the amazing (for its day) Masonic Temple twenty-two stories high, a -score of public institutions, depots, theaters and the like, were being -constructed. It is something wonderful to witness a world metropolis -springing up under one’s very eyes, and this is what was happening here -before me. - -Nosing about the city in an inquiring way and dreaming half-formed -dreams of one and another thing I would like to do, it finally came to -me, dimly, like a bean that strains at its enveloping shell, that I -would like to write of these things. It would be interesting, so I -thought, to describe a place like Goose Island in the Chicago River, a -mucky and neglected realm then covered with shanties made of upturned -boats sawed in two, and yet which seemed to me the height of the -picturesque; also a building like the Auditorium or the Masonic Temple, -that vast wall of masonry twenty-two stories high and at that time -actually the largest building in the world; or a seething pit like that -of the Board of Trade, which I had once visited and which astonished and -fascinated me as much as anything ever had. That roaring, yelling, -screaming whirlpool of life! And then the lake, with its pure white -sails and its blue water; the Chicago River, with its black, oily water, -its tall grain elevators and black coal pockets; the great railroad -yards, covering miles and miles of space with their cars. - -How wonderful it all was! As I walked from place to place collecting I -began betimes to improvise rhythmic, vaguely formulated word-pictures or -rhapsodies anent these same and many other things—free verse, I suppose -we should call it now—which concerned everything and nothing but somehow -expressed the seething poetry of my soul and this thing to me. Indeed I -was crazy with life, a little demented or frenzied with romance and -hope. I wanted to sing, to dance, to eat, to love. My word-dreams and -maunderings concerned my day, my age, poverty, hope, beauty, which I -mouthed to myself, chanting aloud at times. Sometimes, because on a -number of occasions I had heard the Reverend Frank W. Gunsaulus and his -like spout rocket-like sputterings on the subjects of life and religion, -I would orate, pleading great causes as I went. I imagined myself a -great orator with thousands of people before me, my gestures and -enunciation and thought perfect, poetic, and all my hearers moved to -tears or demonstrations of wild delight. - -After a time I ventured to commit some of these things to paper, -scarcely knowing what they were, and in a fever for self-advancement I -bundled them up and sent them to Eugene Field. In his column and -elsewhere I had read about geniuses being occasionally discovered by -some chance composition or work noted by one in authority. I waited for -a time, with great interest but no vast depression, to see what my fate -would be. But no word came and in time I realized that they must have -been very bad and had been dropped into the nearest waste basket. But -this did not give me pause nor grieve me. I seethed to express myself. I -bubbled. I dreamed. And I had a singing feeling, now that I had done -this much, that some day I should really write and be very famous into -the bargain. - -But how? How? My feeling was that I ought to get into newspaper work, -and yet this feeling was so nebulous that I thought it would never come -to pass. I saw mention in the papers of reporters calling to find out -this, or being sent to do that, and so the idea of becoming a reporter -gradually formulated itself in my mind, though how I was to get such a -place I had not the slightest idea. Perhaps reporters had to have a -special training of some kind; maybe they had to begin as clerks behind -a counter, and this made me very somber, for those glowing business -offices always seemed so far removed from anything to which I could -aspire. Most of them were ornate, floreate, with onyx or chalcedony wall -trimmings, flambeaux of bronze or copper on the walls, imitation -mother-of-pearl lights in the ceilings—in short, all the gorgeousness of -a sultan’s court brought to the outer counter where people subscribed or -paid for ads. Because the newspapers were always dealing with signs and -wonders, great functions, great commercial schemes, great tragedies and -pleasures, I began to conceive of them as wonderlands in which all -concerned were prosperous and happy. I painted reporters and newspaper -men generally as receiving fabulous salaries, being sent on the most -urgent and interesting missions. I think I confused, inextricably, -reporters with ambassadors and prominent men generally. Their lives were -laid among great people, the rich, the famous, the powerful; and because -of their position and facility of expression and mental force they were -received everywhere as equals. Think of me, new, young, poor, being -received in that way! - -Imagine then my intense delight one day, when, scanning the “Help -Wanted: Male” columns of the Chicago _Herald_, I encountered an -advertisement which ran (in substance): - - Wanted: A number of bright young men to assist in the business - department during the Christmas holidays. Promotion possible. - Apply to Business Manager between 9 and 10 a.m. - -“Here,” I thought as I read it, “is just the thing I am looking for. -Here is this great paper, one of the most prosperous in Chicago, and -here is an opening for me. If I can only get this my fortune is made. I -shall rise rapidly.” I conceived of myself as being sent off the same -day, as it were, on some brilliant mission and returning, somehow, -covered with glory. - -I hurried to the office of the _Herald_, in Washington Street near Fifth -Avenue, this same morning, and asked to see the business manager. After -a short wait I was permitted to enter the sanctuary of this great -person, who to me, because of the material splendor of the front office, -seemed to be the equal of a millionaire at least. He was tall, graceful, -dark, his full black whiskers parted aristocratically in the middle of -his chin, his eyes vague pools of subtlety. “See what a wonderful thing -it is to be connected with the newspaper business!” I told myself. - -“I saw your ad in this morning’s paper,” I said hopefully. - -“Yes, I did want a half dozen young men,” he replied, beaming upon me -reassuringly, “but I think I have nearly enough. Most of the young men -that come here seem to think they are to be connected with the _Herald_ -direct, but the fact is we want them only for clerks in our free -Christmas gift bureau. They have to judge whether or not the applicants -are impostors and keep people from imposing on the paper. The work will -only be for a week or ten days, but you will probably earn ten or twelve -dollars in that time——” My heart sank. “After the first of the year, if -you take it, you may come around to see me. I may have something for -you.” - -When he spoke of the free Christmas gift bureau I vaguely understood -what he meant. For weeks past, the _Herald_ had been conducting a -campaign for gifts for the poorest children of the city. It had been -importuning the rich and the moderately comfortable to give, through the -medium of its scheme, which was a bureau for the free distribution of -all such things as could be gathered via cash or direct donation of -supplies: toys, clothing, even food, for children. - -“But I wanted to become a reporter if I could,” I suggested. - -“Well,” he said, with a wave of his hand, “this is as good a way as any -other. When this is over I may be able to introduce you to our city -editor.” The title, “city editor,” mystified and intrigued me. It -sounded so big and significant. - -This offer was far from what I anticipated, but I took it joyfully. Thus -to step from one job to another, however brief, and one with such -prospects, seemed the greatest luck in the world. For by now I was -nearly hypochondriacal on the subjects of poverty, loneliness, the want -of the creature comforts and pleasures of life. The mere thought of -having enough to eat and to wear and to do had something of paradise -about it. Some previous long and fruitless searches for work had marked -me with a horror of being without it. - -I bustled about to the _Herald’s_ Christmas Annex, as it was called, a -building standing in Fifth Avenue between Madison and Monroe, and -reported to a brisk underling in charge of the doling out of these -pittances to the poor. Without a word he put me behind the single long -counter which ran across the front of the room and over which were -handled all those toys and Christmas pleasure pieces which a loud -tomtoming concerning the dire need of the poor and the proper Christmas -spirit had produced. - -Life certainly offers some amusing paradoxes at times, and that with -that gay insouciance which life alone can muster and achieve when it is -at its worst anachronistically. Here was I, a victim of what Socialists -would look upon as wage slavery and economic robbery, quite as worthy, I -am sure, of gifts as any other, and yet lined up with fifteen or twenty -other economic victims, ragamuffin souls like myself, all out of jobs, -many of them out at elbows, and all of them doling out gifts from -eight-thirty in the morning until eleven and twelve at night to people -no worse off than themselves. - -I wish you might have seen this chamber as I saw it for eight or nine -days just preceding and including Christmas day itself. (Yes; we worked -from eight a.m. to five-thirty p.m. on Christmas day, and very glad to -get the money, thank you.) There poured in here from the day the bureau -opened, which was the morning I called, and until it closed Christmas -night, as diverse an assortment of alleged poverty-stricken souls as one -would want to see. I do not say that many of them were not deserving; I -am willing to believe that most of them were; but, deserving or no, they -were still worthy of all they received here. Indeed when I think of the -many who came miles, carrying slips of paper on which had been listed, -as per the advice of this paper, all they wished Santa Claus to bring -them or their children, and then recall that, for all their pains in -having their minister or doctor or the _Herald_ itself visé their -request, they received only a fraction of what they sought, I am -inclined to think that all were even more deserving than their reward -indicated. - -For the whole scheme, as I soon found in talking with others and seeing -for myself how it worked, was most loosely managed. Endless varieties of -toys and comforts had been talked about in the paper, but only a few of -the things promised, or vaguely indicated, were here to give—for the -very good reason that no one would give them for nothing to the -_Herald_. Nor had any sensible plan been devised for checking up either -the gifts given or the persons who had received them, and so the same -person, as some of these recipients soon discovered, could come over and -over, bearing different lists of toys, and get them, or at least a part -of them, until some clerk with a better eye for faces than another would -chance to recognize the offender and point him or her out. Jews, the -fox-like Slavic type of course, and the poor Irish, were the worst -offenders in this respect. The _Herald_ was supposed to have kept all -applications written by children to Santa Claus, but it had not done so, -and so hundreds claimed that they had written letters and received no -answer. At the end of the second or third day before Christmas it was -found necessary, because of the confusion and uncertainty, to throw the -doors wide open and give to all and sundry who looked worthy of whatever -was left or “handy,” we, the ragamuffin clerks, being the judges. - -And now the clerks themselves, seeing that no records were kept and how -without plan the whole thing was, notified poor relatives and friends, -and these descended upon us with baskets, expecting candy, turkeys, -suits of clothing and the like, but receiving instead only toy wagons, -toy stoves, baby brooms, Noah’s Arks, story books—the shabbiest mess of -cheap things one could imagine. For the newspaper, true to that canon of -commerce which demands the most for the least, the greatest show for the -least money, had gathered all the odds and ends and left-overs of toy -bargain sales and had dumped them into the large lofts above, to be -doled out as best we could. We could not give a much-desired article to -any one person because, supposing it were there, which was rarely the -case, we could not get at it or find it; yet later another person might -apply and receive the very thing the other had wanted. - -And we clerks, going out to lunch or dinner (save the mark!), would seek -some scrubby little restaurant and eat ham and beans, or crullers and -coffee, or some other tasteless dish, at ten or fifteen cents per head. -Hard luck stories, comments on what a botch the _Herald_ gift bureau -was, on the strange characters that showed up—the hooded Niobes and -dusty Priams, with eyes too sunken and too dry for tears—were the order -of the day. Here I met a young newspaper man, gloomy, out at elbows, who -told me what a wretched, pathetic struggle the newspaper world -presented, but I did not believe him although he had worked in Chicago, -Denver, St. Paul. - -“A poor failure,” I thought, “some one who can’t write and who now -whines and wastes his substance in riotous living when he has it!” - -So much for the sympathy of the poor for the poor. - -But the _Herald_ was doing very well. Daily it was filling its pages -with the splendid results of its charity, the poor relieved, the -darkling homes restored to gayety and bliss.... Can you beat it? But it -was good advertising, and that was all the _Herald_ wanted. - -Hey, Rub-a-dub! Hey, Rub-a-dub-dub! - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER II - - -ON Christmas Eve there came to our home to spend the next two days, -which chanced to be Saturday and Sunday, Alice Kane, a friend and -fellow-clerk of one of my sisters in a department store. Because the -store kept open until ten-thirty or eleven that Christmas Eve, and my -labors at the _Herald_ office detained me until the same hour, we three -arrived at the house at nearly the same time. - -I should say here that the previous year, my mother having died and the -home being in dissolution, I had ventured into the world on my own. -Several sisters, two brothers and my father were still together, but it -was a divided and somewhat colorless home at best. Our mother was gone. -I was already wondering, in great sadness, how long it could endure, for -she had made of it something as sweet as dreams. That temperament, that -charity and understanding and sympathy! We who were left were like -fledglings, trying our wings but fearful of the world. My practical -experience was slight. I was a creature of slow and uncertain response -to anything practical, having an eye single to color, romance, beauty. I -was but a half-baked poet, romancer, dreamer. - -As I was hurrying upstairs to take a bath and then see what pleasures -were being arranged for the morrow, I was intercepted by my sister with -a “Hurry now and come down. I have a friend here and I want you to meet -her. She’s awful nice.” - -At the mere thought of meeting a girl I brightened, for my thoughts were -always on the other sex and I was forever complaining to myself of my -lack of opportunity, and of lack of courage when I had the opportunity, -to do the one thing I most craved to do: shine as a lover. Although at -her suggestion of a girl I pretended to sniff and be superior, still I -bustled to the task of embellishing myself. On coming into the general -livingroom, where a fire was burning brightly, I beheld a pretty -dark-haired girl of medium height, smooth-cheeked and graceful, who -seemed and really was guileless, good-natured and sympathetic. For a -while after meeting her I felt stiff and awkward, for the mere presence -of so pretty a girl was sufficient to make me nervous and -self-conscious. My brother, E——, had gone off early in the evening to -join the family of some girl in whom he was interested; another brother, -A——, was out on some Christmas Eve lark with a group of -fellow-employees; so here I was alone with C—— and this stranger, doing -my best to appear gallant and clever. - -I recall now the sense of sympathy and interest which I felt for this -girl from the start. It must have been clear to my sister, for before -the night was over she had explained, by way of tantalizing me, that -Miss Kane had a beau. Later I learned that Alice was an orphan adopted -by a fairly comfortable Irish couple, who loved her dearly and gave her -as many pleasures and as much liberty as their circumstances would -permit. They had made the mistake, however, of telling her that she was -only an adopted child. This gave her a sense of forlornness and a -longing for a closer and more enduring love. - -Such a mild and sweet little thing she was! I never knew a more -attractive or clinging temperament. She could play the banjo and guitar. -I remember marveling at the dexterity of her fingers as they raced up -and down the frets and across the strings. She was wearing a dark green -blouse and brown corduroy skirt, with a pale brown ribbon about her -neck; her hair was parted on one side, and this gave her a sort of -maidenish masculinity. I found her looking at me slyly now and then, and -smiling at one or another of my affected remarks as though she were -pleased. I recounted the nature of the work I was doing, but -deliberately attempted to confuse it in her mind and my sister’s with -the idea that I was regularly employed by the _Herald_ as a newspaper -man and that this was merely a side task. Subsequently, out of sheer -vanity and a desire to appear more than I was, I allowed her to believe -that I was a reporter on this paper. - -It was snowing. We could see great flakes fluttering about the gas lamps -outside. In the cottage of an Irish family across the street a party of -merrymakers was at play. I proposed that we go out and buy chestnuts and -popcorn and roast them, and that we make snow punch out of milk, sugar -and snow. How gay I felt, how hopeful! In a fit of great daring I took -one hand of each of my companions and ran, trying to slide with them -over the snow. Alice’s screams and laughter were disturbingly musical, -and as she ran her little feet twinkled under her skirts. At one corner, -where the stores were brightly lighted, she stopped and did a graceful -little dance under the electric light. - -“Oh, if I could have a girl like this—if I could just have her!” I -thought, forgetting that I was nightly telling a Scotch girl that she -was the sweetest thing I had ever known or wanted to know. - -Bedtime came, with laughter and gayety up to the last moment. Alice was -to sleep with my sister, and preceded me upstairs, saying she was going -to eat salt on New Year’s Eve so that she would dream of her coming -lover. That night I lay and thought of her, and next morning hurried -downstairs hoping to find her, but she had not come down yet. There were -Christmas stockings to be examined, of course, which brought her, but -before eight-thirty I had to leave in order to be at work at nine -o’clock. I waved them all a gay farewell and looked forward eagerly -toward evening, for she was to remain this night and the next day. - -Through with my work at five-thirty, I hurried home, and then it was -that I learned—and to my great astonishment and gratification—that she -liked me. For when I arrived, dressed, as I had been all day, in my very -best, E—— and A—— were there endeavoring to entertain her, E——, my -younger brother, attempting to make love to her. His method was to press -her toe in an open foolish way, which because of the jealousy it waked -in me seemed to me out of the depths of dullness. From the moment I -entered I fancied that Alice had been waiting for me. Her winning smile -as I entered reassured me, and yet she was very quiet when I was near, -gazing romantically into the fire. - -During the evening I studied her, admiring every detail of her dress, -which was a bit different from that of the day before and more -attractive. She seemed infinitely sweet, and I flattered myself that I -was preferred over my two brothers. During the evening, we two being -left together for some reason, she arose and went into the large front -room and standing before one of the three large windows looked out in -silence on the homelike scene that our neighborhood presented. The snow -had ceased and a full moon was brightening everything. The little -cottages and flat-buildings nearby glowed romantically through their -drawn blinds, a red-ribboned Christmas wreath in every window. I pumped -up my courage to an unusual point and, heart in mouth, followed and -stood beside her. It was a great effort on my part. - -She pressed her nose to the pane and then breathed on it, making a misty -screen between herself and the outside upon which she wrote my initials, -rubbed them out, then breathed on the window again and wrote her own. -Her face was like a small wax flower in the moonlight. I had drawn so -close, moved by her romantic call, that my body almost touched hers. -Then I slipped an arm about her waist and was about to kiss her when I -heard my sister’s voice: - -“Now, Al and Theo, you come back!” - -“We must go,” she said shamefacedly, and as she started I ventured to -touch her hand. She looked at me and smiled, and we went back to the -other room. I waited eagerly for other solitary moments. - -Because the festivities were too general and inclusive there was no -other opportunity that evening, but the next morning, church claiming -some and sleep others, there was a half-hour or more in which I was -alone with her in the front room, looking over the family album. I -realized that by now she was as much drawn to me as I to her, and that, -as in the case of my Scotch maid, I was master if I chose so to be. I -was so wrought up in the face of this opportunity, however, that I -scarcely had courage to do that which I earnestly believed I could do. -As we stood over the album looking at the pictures I toyed first with -the strings of her apron and then later, finding no opposition, allowed -my hand to rest gently at her waist. Still no sign of opposition or even -consciousness. I thrilled from head to toe. Then I closed my arm gently -about her waist, and when it became noticeably tight she looked up and -smiled. - -“You’d better watch out,” she said. “Some one may come.” - -“Do you like me a little?” I pleaded, almost choking. - -“I think so. I think you’re very nice, anyhow. But you mustn’t,” she -said. “Some one may come in,” and as I drew her to me she pretended to -resist, maneuvering her cheek against my mouth as she pulled away. - -She was just in time, for C—— came into the back parlor and said: “Oh, -there you are! I wondered where you were.” - -“I was just looking over your album,” Alice said. - -“Yes,” I added, “I was showing it to her.” - -“Oh yes,” laughed my sister sarcastically. “You and Al—I know what you -two were trying to do. You!” she exclaimed, giving me a push. “And Al, -the silly! She has a beau already!” - -She laughed and went off, but I, hugely satisfied with myself, swaggered -into the adjoining room. Beau or no beau, Alice belonged to me. Youthful -vanity was swelling my chest. I was more of a personage for having had -it once more proved to me that I was not unattractive to girls. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER III - - -WHEN I asked Alice when I should see her again she suggested the -following Tuesday or Thursday, asking me not to say anything to C——. I -had not been calling on her more than a week or two before she confessed -that there was another suitor, a telegraph operator to whom she was -engaged and who was still calling on her regularly. When she came to our -house to spend Christmas, she said, it was with no intention of seeking -a serious flirtation, though in order not to embarrass the sense of -opportunity we boys might feel she had taken off her engagement ring. -Also, she confessed to me, she never wore it at the store, for the -reason that it would create talk and make it seem that she might leave -soon, when she was by no means sure that she would. In short, she had -become engaged thus early without being certain that she was in love. - -Never were happier hours than those I spent with her, though at the time -I was in that state of unrest and change which afflicts most youths who -are endeavoring to discover what they want to do in life. On Christmas -day my job was gone and the task of finding another was before me, but -this did not seem so grim now. I felt more confident. True, the manager -of the _Herald_ had told me to call after the first of the year, and I -did so, but only to find that his suggestion of something important to -come later had been merely a ruse to secure eager and industrious -service for his bureau. When I told him I wanted to become a reporter, -he said: “But, you see, I have nothing whatsoever to do with that. You -must see the managing editor on the fourth floor.” - -To say this to me was about the same as to say: “You must see God.” -Nevertheless I made my way to that floor, but at that hour of the -morning, I found no one at all. Another day, going at three, so complete -was my ignorance of newspaper hours, I found only a few uncommunicative -individuals at widely scattered desks in a room labeled “City Room.” One -of these, after I had asked him how one secured a place as a reporter, -looked at me quizzically and said: “You want to see the city editor. He -isn’t here now. The best times to see him are at noon and six. That’s -the only time he gives out assignments.” - -“Aha!” I thought. “‘Assignments’—so that’s what reportorial work is -called! And I must come at either twelve or six.” So I bustled away, to -return at six, for I felt that I must get work in this great and -fascinating field. When I came at six and was directed to a man who bent -over a desk and was evidently very much concerned about something, he -exclaimed: “No vacancies. Nothing open. Sorry,” and turned away. - -So I went out crestfallen and more overawed than ever. Who was I to -attempt to venture into such a wonderland as this—I, a mere collector by -trade? I doubt if any one ever explored the mouth of a cave with more -feeling of uncertainty. It was all so new, so wonderful, so mysterious. -I looked at the polished doors and marble floors of this new and -handsome newspaper building with such a feeling as might have possessed -an Ethiopian slave examining the walls and the doors of the temple of -Solomon. How wonderful it must be to work in such a place as this! How -shrewd and wise must be the men whom I saw working here, able and -successful and comfortable! How great and interesting the work they did! -Today they were here, writing at one of these fine desks; tomorrow they -would be away on some important mission somewhere, taking a train, -riding in a Pullman car, entering some great home or office and -interviewing some important citizen. And when they returned they were -congratulated upon having discovered some interesting fact or story on -which, having reported to their city editor or managing editor, or -having written it out, they were permitted to retire in comfort with -more compliments. Then they resorted to an excellent hotel or -restaurant, to refresh themselves among interested and interesting -friends before retiring to rest. Some such hodge-podge as this filled my -immature brain. - -Despite the discouraging reception of my first overture, I visited other -newspaper offices, only to find the same, and even colder, conditions. -The offices in most cases were by no means so grand, but the atmosphere -was equally chill, and the city editor was a difficult man to approach. -Often I was stopped by an office boy who reported, when I said I was -looking for work, no vacancies. When I got in at all, nearly all the -city editors merely gave me a quick glance and said: “No vacancies.” I -began to feel that the newspaper world must be controlled by a secret -cult or order until one lithe bony specimen with a pointed green shade -over his eyes and dusty red hair looked at me much as an eagle might -look at a pouter pigeon, and asked: - -“Ever worked on a paper before?” - -“No, sir.” - -“How do you know you can write?” - -“I don’t; but I think I could learn.” - -“Learn? Learn? We haven’t time to teach anybody here! You better try one -of the little papers—a trade paper, maybe, until you learn how—then come -back,” and he walked off. - -This gave me at least a definite idea as to how I might begin, but just -the same it did not get me a position. - -Meanwhile, looking here and there and not finding anything, I decided, -since I had had experience as a collector and must live while I was -making my way into journalism, to return to this work and see if I might -not in the meantime get a place as a reporter. - -Having been previously employed by an easy-payment instalment house, I -now sought out another, the Corbin Company, in Lake Street, not very far -from the office of the firm for which I had previously worked. From this -firm, having been hard pressed for a winter overcoat the preceding fall, -I had abstracted or held out twenty-five dollars, intending to restore -it. But before I had been able to manage that a slack up in the work -occurred, due to the fact that wandering street agents sold less in -winter than in summer, and I was laid off and had to confess that I was -short in my account. - -The manager and owner, who had seemed to take a fancy to me, said -nothing other than that I was making a mistake, taking the path that led -to social hell. I do not recall that he even requested that the money be -returned. But I was so nervous that I was convinced that some day, -unless I returned the money, I should be arrested, and to avoid this I -had written him a letter after leaving promising that I would pay up. He -never even bothered to answer the letter, and I believe that if I had -returned in the spring, paid the twenty-five dollars and asked for work -he would have taken me on again. But I had no such thought in mind. I -held myself disgraced forever and only wished to get clear of this sort -of work. It was a vulture game at best, selling trash to the ignorant -for twelve and fourteen times its value. Now that I was out of it I -hated to return. I feared that the first thing my proposed employer -would do would be to inquire of my previous employer, and that being -informed of my stealing he would refuse to employ me. - -With fear and trembling I inquired of the firm in Lake Street and was -told that there was a place awaiting some one—“the right party.” The -manager wanted to know if I could give a bond for three hundred dollars; -they had just had one collector arrested for stealing sixty dollars. I -told him I thought I could and decided to explain the proposition to my -father and obtain his advice since I knew little about how a bond was -secured. When I learned that the bonding company investigated one’s -past, however, I was terrorized. My father, an honest, worthy and -defiant German, on being told that a bond was required, scouted the idea -with much vehemence. Why should any one want a bond from me? he demanded -to know. Hadn’t I worked for Mr. M—— in the same line? Couldn’t they go -there and find out? At thought of M—— I shook, and, rather than have an -investigation, dropped the whole matter, deciding not to go near the -place again. - -But the manager, taken by my guileless look, I presume, called one -evening at our house. He had taken a fancy to me, he said; I looked to -be honest and industrious; he liked the neighborhood I lived in. He -proposed that I should go to one of the local bonding companies and get -a three hundred dollar bond for ten dollars a year, his company paying -for the bond out of my first week’s salary, which was to be only twelve -dollars to start with. This promised to involve explaining about M——, -but I decided to go to the bonding company and refer only to two other -men for whom I had worked and see what would happen. For the rest, I -proposed to say that school and college life had filled my years before -this. If trouble came over M—— I planned to run away. - -But, to my astonishment and delight, my ruse worked admirably. The -following Sunday afternoon my new manager called and asked me to report -the following morning for work. - -Oh, those singing days in the streets and parks and show-places of -Chicago, those hours when in bright or thick lowery weather I tramped -the highways and byways dreaming chaotic dreams. I had all my afternoons -to myself after one or two o’clock. The speed with which I worked and -could walk would soon get me over the list of my customers, and then I -was free to go where I chose. Spring was coming. I was only nineteen. -Life was all before me, and the feel of plenty of money in my pocket, -even if it did not belong to me, was comforting. And then youth, -youth—that lilt and song in one’s very blood! I felt as if I were -walking on tinted clouds, among the highlands of the dawn. - -How shall I do justice to this period, which for perfection of spirit, -ease of soul, was the very best I had so far known? In the first place, -because of months of exercise in the open air, my physical condition was -good. I was certain to get somewhere in the newspaper world, or so I -thought. The condition of our family was better than it had ever been in -my time, for we four younger children were working steadily. Our home -life, in spite of bickerings among several of my brothers and sisters, -was still pleasing enough. Altogether we were prospering, and my father -was looking forward to a day when all family debts would be paid and the -soul of my mother, as well as his own when it passed over, could be -freed from too prolonged torments in purgatory! For, as a Catholic, he -believed that until all one’s full debts here on earth were paid one’s -soul was held in durance on the other side. - -For myself, life was at the topmost toss. I was like some bird poised on -a high twig, teetering and fluttering and ready for flight. Again, I was -like those flying hawks and buzzards that ride so gracefully on still -wings above a summer landscape, seeing all the wonders of the world -below. Again, I was like a song that sings itself, the spirit of happy -music that by some freak of creation is able to rejoice in its own -harmonies and rhythms. Joy was ever before me, the sense of some great -adventure lurking just around the corner. - -How I loved the tonic note of even the grinding wheels of the trucks and -cars, the clang and clatter of cable and electric lines, the surge of -vehicles in every street! The palls of heavy manufacturing smoke that -hung low over the city like impending hurricanes; the storms of wintry -snow or sleety rain; the glow of yellow lights in little shops at -evening, mile after mile, where people were stirring and bustling over -potatoes, flour, cabbages—all these things were the substance of songs, -paintings, poems. I liked the sections where the women of the town were -still, at noon, sleeping off the debauches of the preceding night, or at -night were preparing for the gaudy make-believes of their midnight day. -I liked those sections crowded with great black factories, stock-yards, -steel works, Pullman yards, where in the midst of Plutonian stress and -clang men mixed or forged or joined or prepared those delicacies, -pleasures and perfections for which the world buys and sells itself. -Life was at its best here, its promise the most glittering. I liked -those raw neighborhoods where in small, unpainted, tumbledown shanties -set in grassless, can-strewn yards drunken and lecherous slatterns and -brawlers were to be found mooning about in a hell of their own. And, for -contrast, I liked those areas of great mansions set upon the great -streets of the city in spacious lawns, where liveried servants stood by -doors and carriages turned in at spacious gates and under heavy -porte-cochères. - -I think I grasped Chicago in its larger material if not in its more -complicated mental aspects. Its bad was so deliciously bad, its good so -very good, keen and succulent, reckless, inconsequential, pretentious, -hopeful, eager, new. People cursed or raved or snarled—the more -fortunate among them, but they were never heavy or dull or asleep. In -some neighborhoods the rancidity of dirt, or the stark icy bleakness of -poverty, fairly shouted, but they were never still, decaying pools of -misery. On wide bleak stretches of prairie swept by whipping winds one -could find men who were tanning dog or cat hides but their wives were -buying yellow plush albums or red silk-shaded lamps or blue and green -rugs on time, as I could personally testify. Churches with gaudy altars -and services rose out of mucky masses of shanties and gas-tanks; saloons -with glistening bars of colored glass and mirrors stood as the centers -and clubs of drear, bleak masses of huts. There were vice districts and -wealth districts hung with every enticing luxury that the wit of a -commonplace or conventional mind could suggest. Such was Chicago. - -In the vice districts I had been paid for shabby rugs and lamps, all -shamelessly overpriced, by plump naked girls striding from bed to -dresser to get a purse, and then offered certain favors for a dollar, or -its equivalent—a credit on the contract slip. In the more exclusive -neighborhoods I was sent around to a side entrance by comfortably -dressed women who were too proud or too sly to have their neighbors know -that they were buying on time. Black negresses leered at me from behind -shuttered windows at noon; plump wives drew me into risqué situations on -sight; death-bereaved weepers mourned over their late lost in my -presence—and postponed paying me. But I liked the life. I was crazy -about it. Chicago was like a great orchestra in a tumult of noble -harmonies. I was like a guest at a feast, eating and drinking in a -delirium of ecstasy. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER IV - - -BUT if I was wrought up by the varying aspects of the city, I was -equally wrought up by the delights of love, which came for the first -time fully with the arrival of Alice. Was I in love with her? No, as I -understand myself now. I doubt that I have ever been in love with any -one, or with anything save life as a whole. Twice or thrice I have -developed stirring passions but always there was a voice or thought -within which seemed to say over and over, like a bell at sea: “What does -it matter? Beauty is eternal.... Beauty will come again!” But this -thing, _life_, this picture of effort, this colorful panorama of hope -and joy and despair—that _did_ matter! Beauty, like a tinkling bell, the -tintings of the dawn, the whispering of gentle winds and waters in -summer days and Arcadian places, was in everything and everywhere. -Indeed the appeal of this local life was its relationship to eternal -perfect beauty. That it should go! That never again, after a few years, -might I see it more! That love should pass! That youth should pass! That -in due time I should stand old and grizzled, contemplating with -age-filmed eyes joys and wonders whose sting and color I could no longer -feel or even remember—out on it for a damned tragedy and a mirthless -joke! - -Alice proved to be in love with me. She lived in a two-flat frame house -in what was then the far middle-south section of the city, a region -about Fifty-first and Halsted streets. Her foster-father was a railroad -watchman, and had saved up a few thousand dollars by years of toil. This -little apartment represented his expenditures plus her taste, such as it -was: a simple little place, with red plush curtains shielding a pair of -folding-doors which separated two large rooms front and back. There were -lace curtains and white shades at the windows, a piano (a most soothing -luxury for me to contemplate), and then store furniture: a red velvet -settee, a red plush rocker, several other new badly designed chairs. - -Quaint little soul! How cheery and dreamful and pulsating with life she -was when I met her! Her suitor, as I afterwards came to know, was a -phlegmatic man of thirty-five, who had found in her all that he desired -and was eager to marry her, as he eventually did. He was wont to call -regularly on Wednesday and Sunday evenings, taking her occasionally to a -theater or to dinner downtown. When I arrived on the scene I must have -disrupted all this, for after a time, because I manifested some -opposition, leaving her no choice indeed, Wednesdays and Sundays became -my evenings, and any others that I chose. Regardless of my numerous and -no doubt asinine defects, she was in love with me and willing to accept -me on my own terms. - -Yes, Alice saw something she wanted and thought she could hold. She -wanted to unite with me for this little span of existence, to go with me -hand in hand into the ultimate nothingness. I think she was a poet in -her way, but voiceless. When I called the first night she sat primly for -a little while on one of her red chairs near the window, while I -occupied a rocker. I had hung up my coat and hat with a flourish and had -stood about for a while examining everything, with the purpose of -estimating it and her. It all seemed cozy and pleasing enough and, -curiously, I felt more at ease on this my first visit than I ever did at -my Scotch maid’s home. There her thrifty, cautious, religious though -genial and well-meaning mother, her irritable blind uncle and her more -attractive young sister disturbed and tended to alienate me. Here, for -weeks and weeks, I never saw Alice’s foster-parents. When finally I was -introduced to them, they grated on me not at all. This first night she -played a little on her piano, then on her banjo, and because she seemed -especially charming to me I went over and stood behind her chair, -deciding to take her face in my hands and kiss her. Perhaps a touch of -remorse and in consequence a bit of indecision now swayed her, for she -got up before I could do it. On the instant my assurance became less and -yet my mood hardened, for I thought she was trifling with me. After the -previous Sunday it seemed to me that she could do no less than permit me -to embrace her. I was deciding that the evening was about to be a -failure, when she came up behind me and said: “Don’t you think it’s -rather nice across there, between those houses?” - -Over the way a gap between peaked-roofed houses revealed a long stretch -of prairie, now covered with snow, gas lamps flickering in orderly rows, -an occasional frame house glowing in the distance. - -“Yes,” I admitted moodily. - -“This is a funny neighborhood,” she ventured. “People are always moving -in and out in that row of houses over there.” - -“Are they?” I said, not very much interested now that I felt myself -defeated. There was a silence and then she laid one hand on my arm. - -“You’re not mad at me, Dorse?” she asked, using a name which my sister -had given me. - -The sound of it on her lips, soft and pleading, moved me. - -“Oh, no,” I replied loftily. “Why should I be?” - -“I was thinking that maybe I oughtn’t to be doing this. There’s been -some one else up to now, you know.” - -“Yes.” - -“I guess I don’t care for him any more or I wouldn’t be doing what I -am.” - -“I thought you cared for me. Why did you invite me down here?” - -“Oh, Dorse, I do,” she said, placing both her hands on my folded arms -and looking up into my face with a kind of tenseness. “I know it isn’t -right but I can’t help it. You have such nice hair and eyes, and you’re -so tall. Do you care for me at all?” - -“Yes,” I said, smiling cynically over my victory. “I think you’re -beautiful.” I smoothed her cheek with one hand while I held her about -the waist with the other. - -We went over to the red settee and I took her in my arms and held her -and kissed her mouth and eyes and neck. She clung to me and laughed and -told me bits about her work and her pompous floor-walker and her social -companions, and even her fiancé. She danced for me when I asked her, -doing a running overstep clog, sidewise to and fro, her skirts lifted to -her shoetops. She was sweetly feminine, in no wise aggressive or bold. I -stayed until nearly one in the morning. I had nine or ten miles to go by -owl cars, arriving home at nearly three; but at this time I was not -working and so my time was my own. - -The thing that troubled me was what my Scotch girl would think if she -found out (which she never would), and how I could extricate myself from -a situation which, now that I had Alice, was not as interesting as it -had been. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER V - - -AS spring approached this affair moved on apace. The work of the Corbin -Company was no harder than that of the Lovell Company, and I had more -time to myself. Because of an ingrowing sense of my personal importance -and because I thought it such a wonderful thing to be a newspaper man -and so very much less to be a collector, I lied to Alice as to what I -was doing. When should I be through with collecting and begin reporting? -I was eager to know all about music, painting, sculpture, literature, -and to be in those places where life is at its best. I was regretful now -that I had not made better use of my school and college days, and so in -my free hours I read, visited the art gallery and library, went to -theaters and concerts. The free intellectual churches, or ethical -schools, were my favorite places on Sunday mornings. I would sometimes -take Alice or my Scotch girl to the Theodore Thomas concerts, which were -just beginning at the Auditorium, or to see the best plays and actors: -Booth, Barrett, Modjeska, Fannie Davenport, Mary Anderson, Joseph -Jefferson, Nat Goodwin. Thinking of myself as a man with a future, I -assumed a kind of cavalier attitude toward my two sweethearts, finally -breaking with N—— on the pretext that she was stubborn and superior and -did not love me, whereas I really wanted to assume privileges which she, -with her conventional notions, could not permit and which I was not -generous enough not to want. As for Alice she was perfectly willing to -yield, with a view, I have always thought, to moving me to marry her. -But being deeply touched by her very obvious charm, I did nothing. - -Once my work was done of an afternoon, I loitered over many things -waiting for evening to come, when I should see Alice again. Usually I -read or visited a gallery or some park. Alice was intensely sweet to me. -Her eyes were so soft, so liquid, so unprotesting and so unresenting. -She was usually gay, with at times a suggestion of hidden melancholy. At -night, in that great world of life which is the business heart of -Chicago I used to wait for her, and together, once we had found each -other in the crowds, we would make our way to the great railway station -at the end of Dearborn Street, where a tall clock-tower held a single -yellow clock-face. If it chanced to be Tuesday or Thursday I would go -home with her. On other nights she would sometimes stay down to dine -with me at some inexpensive place. - -I never knew until toward the end of the following summer, when things -were breaking up for me in Chicago and seemingly greater opportunities -were calling me elsewhere, that during all this time she had really -never relinquished her relationship with my predecessor, fearing my -instability perhaps. By what necessary lies and innocent subterfuges she -had held him against the time when I might not care for her any more I -know not. The thing has poignance now. Was she unfaithful? I do not -think so. At any rate she was tender, clinging and in need of true -affection. She would take my hand and hold it under her arm or against -her heart and talk of the little things of the day: the strutting -customers and managers, the condescending women of social pretensions, -the other girls, who sometimes spied upon or traitorously betrayed each -other. Usually her stories were of amusing things, for she had no heart -for bitter contention. There was a note of melancholy running all -through her relationship with me, however, for I think she saw the -unrest and uncertainty of my point of view. Already my mind’s eye was -scanning a farther horizon, in which neither she nor any other woman had -a vital part. Fame, applause, power, possibly, these were luring me. -Once she said to me, her eyes looking longingly into mine: - -“Do you really love me, Dorse?” - -“Don’t you think I do?” I replied evasively, and yet saying to myself -that I truly cared for her in my fashion, which was true. - -“Yes, I think you do, in your way,” she said, and the correct -interpretation shocked me. I saw myself a stormy petrel hanging over the -yellowish-black waves of life and never really resting anywhere. I could -not; my mind would not let me. I saw too much, felt too much, knew too -much. What was I, what any one, but a small bit of seaweed on an endless -sea, flotsam, jetsam, being moved hither and thither—by what -subterranean tides? - -Oh, Alice, dead or living, eternally sleeping or eternally waking, -listen to these few true words! You were beautiful to me. My heart was -hungry. I wanted youth, I wanted beauty, I wanted sweetness, I wanted a -tender smile, wide eyes, loveliness—all these you had and gave. - -Peace to you! I do not ask as much for myself. - -My determination to leave the Corbin Company was associated with other -changes equally important and of much more emotional interest. Our home -life, now that my mother was gone, was most unsatisfactory. What I took -to be the airs and plotting domination of my sister M——, toward whom I -had never borne any real affection, had become unbearable. I disliked -her very much, for though she was no better than the rest of us, or so I -thought at the time, she was nevertheless inclined to dogmatize as to -the duty of others. Here she was, married yet living at home and -traveling at such times and to such places as suited her husband’s -convenience, obtaining from him scarcely enough to maintain herself in -the state to which she thought she was entitled, contributing only a -small portion to the upkeep of the home, and yet setting herself and her -husband up as superiors whose exemplary social manners might well be -copied by all. Her whole manner from morning to night, day in and day -out, was one of superiority. Or, so I thought at the time. “I am Mrs. G. -A——, if you please,” she seemed to say. “G—— is doing this. I am going -to do so-and-so. It can scarcely be expected that we, in our high state, -should have much to do with the rest of you.” - -Yet whenever A—— was in or near Chicago he made our home his abiding -place. Two of the best rooms on the second floor were set aside for his -and M——’s use. The most stirring preparations were made whenever he was -coming, the house swept, flowers bought, extra cooking done and what -not; the moment he had gone things fell to their natural and rather -careless pace. M—— retired to her rooms and was scarcely seen for days. -T——, another sister, who despised her heartily, would sulk, and when she -thought the burden of family work was being shouldered on to her would -do nothing at all. My father was left to go through a routine of duties -such as fire-building, care of the furnace, marketing, which should have -facilitated the housework but which in these quarreling conditions made -it seem as if he were being put upon. C——, another sister, who was -anything but a peacemaker, added fuel to the flames by criticizing the -drift of things to the younger members: A——, E—— and myself. - -The thing that had turned me definitely against M—— followed a letter -which my brother Paul once sent to my mother, enclosing a check for ten -dollars and intended especially for her. Because it was sent to her -personally she wanted to keep it secret from the others, and to do this -she sent me to the general postoffice, on which it was drawn, with her -signature filled in and myself designated as the proper recipient. I got -the money and returned it to her, but either because of her increasing -illness or because she still wanted to keep it a secret, when Paul -mentioned it in another letter she said she had not received it. Then -she died and the matter of the money came up. It was proved by inquiry -at the postoffice that the money had been paid to me. I confirmed this -and asserted, which was true, that I had given it to mother. M—— alone, -of all the family, felt called upon to question this. She visited an -inspector at the general postoffice (a friend of A——’s by the way) and -persuaded him to make inquiry, with a view no doubt to frightening me. -The result of this was a formal letter asking me to call at his office. -When I went and found that he was charging me with the detention of this -money and demanding its return on pain of my being sent to prison, I -blazed of course and told him to go to the devil. When I reached home I -was furious. I called out my sister M—— and told her—well, many things. -For weeks and even months I had a burning desire to strike her, although -nothing more was ever done or said concerning it. For over fifteen years -the memory of this one thing divided us completely, but after that, -having risen, as I thought, to superior interests and viewpoints, I -condescended to become friendly. - -The first half of 1891 was the period of my greatest bitterness toward -her, and in consequence, when my sister C—— came to me with her -complaints and charges we brewed between us a kind of revolution based -primarily on our opposition to M—— and her airs, but secondarily on the -inadequate distribution of the family means and the inability of the -different sisters to agree upon the details of the home management. -According to C——, who was most bitter in her charges, both M—— and T—— -were lazy and indifferent. As a matter of fact, I cared as little for -C—— and her woes as I did for any of the others. But the thought of this -home, dominated by M—— and T—— and supported by us younger ones, with -father as a kind of pleading watchdog of the treasury, weeping in his -beard and moaning over the general recklessness of our lives, was too -much. - -Indeed this matter of money, not idleness or domination, was the crux of -the whole situation, for if there had been plenty of money, or if each -of us could have retained his own earnings, there would have been little -grieving. C—— was jealous of M—— and T——, and of the means with which -their marital relations supplied them, and although she was earning -eight dollars a week she felt that the three or four which she -contributed to the household were far too much. A——, who earned ten and -contributed five, had no complaint to make, and E——, who earned nine and -supplied four-and-a-half, also had nothing to say. I was earning twelve, -later fourteen, and gave only six, and very often I begrudged much of -this. So between us C—— and I brewed a revolution, which ended -unsatisfactorily for us all. - -Late in March, a crisis came because of a bitter quarrel that sprung up -between M—— and C——. C—— and I now proposed, with the aid of A—— and E—— -if we could get it, either to drive M—— from the house and take charge -ourselves, or rent a small apartment somewhere, pool our funds and set -up a rival home of our own, leaving this one to subsist as best it -might. It was a hard and cold thing to plan, and I still wonder why I -shared in it; but then it seemed plausible enough. - -However that may be, this revolutionary program was worked out to a -definite conclusion. With C—— as the whip and planner and myself as -general executive, a small apartment only a few blocks from our home was -fixed upon, prices of furniture on time studied, cost of food, light, -entertainment gone into. C——, in her eagerness to bring her rage to a -cataclysmic conclusion, volunteered to do the cooking and housekeeping -alone, and still work downtown as before. If each contributed five -dollars a week, as we said, we would have a fund of over eighty dollars -a month, which should house and feed us and buy furniture on the -instalment plan. A—— was consulted as to this and refused, saying, which -was the decent thing to say and characteristic of him, that we ought to -stay here and keep the home together for father’s sake, he being old and -feeble. E——, always a lover of adventure and eager to share in any new -thing, agreed to go with us. We had to revise our program, but even with -only sixty dollars a month as a general fund we thought we could get -along. - -And so we three, C—— being the spokesman, had the cheek to announce to -my father that either M—— should leave and allow us to run the house as -we wished or we would leave. The ultimatum was not given in any such -direct way: charges and counter charges were first made; long arguments -and pleadings were indulged in by one side and the other. Finally, -seeing that there was no hope of forcing M—— to leave, C—— announced -that she was going, alone or with others. I said I would follow. E—— -said he was coming—and there you were. I never saw a man more distressed -than my father, one more harassed by what he knew to be the final -dissolution of the family. He pleaded, but his pleas fell on youthful, -inconsiderate ears. I went and rented the flat, had the gas turned on -and some furniture installed; and then, toward the end of March, in -blustery weather, we moved. - -Never was a man more distrait than my father during these last two or -three days of our stay. Having completed the details, C——, E—— and I -were busy marching to and fro at spare moments, carrying clothes, books, -pictures and the like to the new home. There were open squabbles now -between C—— and M—— as to the possession of certain things, but these -were finally adjusted without blows. At last we were ready to leave, and -then came our last adieux to my father and A——. When my turn came I -marched out with a hard, cheery, independent look on my face, but I was -really heavy with a sense of my unfairness and brutality. A—— and my -father were the two I really preferred. My father was so old and frail. - -“Well,” he said with his German accent when I came to say good-by, -“you’re going, are you? I’m sorry, Dorsch. I done the best I could. The -girls, they won’t ever agree, it seems. I try, but it don’t seem to do -any good. I have prayed these last few days.... I hope you don’t ever -feel sorry. It’s C—— who stirs up all these things.” - -He waved his hands in a kind of despairing way and after some pointless -and insincere phrases I went out. The cold March winds were blowing from -the West, and it was raw, blowy, sloppy, gray. Tomorrow it would be -brighter, but tonight—— - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER VI - - -AS April advanced I left the Corbin Company, determined to improve my -condition. I was tired of collecting—the same districts, the same -excuses, innocences, subterfuges. By degrees I had come to feel a great -contempt for the average mind. So many people were so low, so shifty, so -dirty, so nondescript. They were food for dreams; little more. Owing to -my experience with the manager of the Lovell Company in the matter of -taking what did not belong to me I had become very cautious, and this -meant that I should be compelled to live from week to week on my -miserable twelve dollars. - -In addition, home life had become a horrible burden. The house was badly -kept and the meals were wretched. Being of a quarrelsome, fault-finding -disposition and not having M—— or T—— to fight with, C—— now turned her -attentions to E—— and myself. We did not do this and that; the burden of -the work was left to her. By degrees I grew into a kind of servant. -Being told one April Friday of some needs that I must supply, and having -decided that I could not endure either this abode or my present work, I -took my fate in my hands and the next day resigned my job, having in my -possession sixty-five dollars. I was now determined, come what might, -never to take another job except one of reporting unless I was actually -driven to it by starvation, and in this mood I came home and announced -that I had lost my position and that this “home” would therefore have to -be given up. And how glad I was! Now I should be rid of this dull flat, -which was so colorless and burdensome. As I see it now, my sister -sensibly enough from her point of view, perhaps, was figuring that E—— -and I, as dutiful brothers, should support her while she spent all her -money on clothes. I came to dislike her almost as much as I did M——, and -told her gladly this same day that we could not live here any longer. In -consequence the furniture company was notified to come and get the -furniture. Our lease of the place being only from month to month, it was -easy enough to depart at once. E—— and I were to share a room at the de -G——s for a dollar and a half a week each, such meals as I ate there to -be paid for at the rate of twenty-five cents each. - -Then and there, as I have since noted with a kind of fatalistic -curiosity, the last phase of my rather troublesome youth began. Up to -and even including this last move to Taylor Street I had been intimately -identified, in spirit at least, with our family and its concentrated -home life. During my mother’s life, of course, I had felt that wherever -she was was home; after her death it was the house in which she had -lived that held me, quite as much as it was my father and those of us -who remained together to keep up in some manner the family spirit. When -the spell of this began to lessen, owing to bitter recrimination and the -continuous development of individuality in all of us, this new branch -home established by three of us seemed something of the old place and -spiritually allied to it; but when it fell, and the old home broke up at -about the same time, I felt completely adrift. - -What was I to do with myself now? I asked. Where go? Here I was, soon -(in three months) to be twenty-one years old, and yet without trade or -profession, a sort of nondescript dreamer without the power to earn a -decent living and yet with all the tastes and proclivities of one -destined to an independent fortune. My eyes were constantly fixed on -people in positions far above my own. Those who interested me most were -bankers, millionaires, artists, executives, leaders, the real rulers of -the world. Just at this time the nation was being thrown into its -quadrennial ferment, the presidential election. The newspapers were -publishing reams upon reams of information and comment. David B. Hill, -then governor of New York, Grover Cleveland of New York, Thomas B. -Hendricks of Indiana, and others were being widely and favorably -discussed by the Democratic party, whose convention was to be held here -in Chicago the coming June. Among the Republicans, Benjamin Harrison of -Indiana, James G. Blaine of Maine, Thomas B. Allison of Iowa, and others -were much to the fore. - -If by my devotion to minor matters I have indicated that I was not -interested in public affairs I have given an inadequate account of -myself. It is true that life at close range fascinated me, but the -general progress of Europe and America and Asia and Africa was by no -means beyond my intellectual inquiry. By now I was a reader of Emerson, -Carlyle, Macaulay, Froude, John Stuart Mill and others. The existence of -Nietzsche in Germany, Darwin, Spencer, Wallace and Tyndall in England, -and what they stood for, was in part at least within the range of my -intuition, if not my exact knowledge. In America, Washington, Jefferson, -Jackson, Lincoln, the history of the Civil War and the subsequent drift -of the nation to monopoly and so to oligarchy, were all within my -understanding and private philosophizing. - -And now this national ferment in regard to political preferment and -advancement, the swelling tides of wealth and population in Chicago, the -upward soaring of names and fames, stirred me like whips and goads. I -wanted to get up—oh, how eagerly! I wanted to shake off the garments of -the commonplace in which I seemed swathed and step forth into the public -arena, where I should be seen and understood for what I was. “No common -man am I,” I was constantly saying to myself, and I would no longer be -held down to this shabby world of collecting in which I found myself. -The newspapers—the newspapers—somehow, by their intimacy with everything -that was going on in the world, seemed to be the swiftest approach to -all this of which I was dreaming. It seemed to me as if I understood -already all the processes by which they were made. Reporting, I said to -myself, must certainly be easy. Something happened—one car ran into -another; a man was shot; a fire broke out; the reporter ran to the -scene, observed or inquired the details, got the names and addresses of -those immediately concerned, and then described it all. To reassure -myself on this point I went about looking for accidents on my own -account, or imagining them, and then wrote out what I saw or imagined. -To me the result, compared with what I found in the daily papers, was -quite satisfactory. Some paper must give me a place. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER VII - - -PICTURE a dreamy cub of twenty-one, long, spindling, a pair of -gold-framed spectacles on his nose, his hair combed _à la pompadour_, a -new spring suit consisting of light check trousers and bright blue coat -and vest, a brown fedora hat, new yellow shoes, starting out to force -his way into the newspaper world of Chicago. At that time, although I -did not know it, Chicago was in the heyday of its newspaper prestige. -Some of the nation’s most remarkable editors, publishers and newspaper -writers were at work there: Melville E. Stone, afterward general manager -of the Associated Press; Victor F. Lawson, publisher of the _Daily -News_; Joseph Medill, editor and publisher of the _Tribune_; Eugene -Field, managing editor of the _Morning Record_; William Penn Nixon, -editor and publisher of the _Inter-Ocean_; George Ade; Finley Peter -Dunne; Brand Whitlock; and a score of others subsequently to become well -known. - -Having made up my mind that I must be a newspaper man, I made straight -for the various offices at noon and at six o’clock each day to ask if -there was anything I could do. Very soon I succeeded in making my way -into the presence of the various city and managing editors of all the -papers in Chicago, with the result that they surveyed me with the -cynical fishy eye peculiar to newspaper men and financiers and told me -there was nothing. - -One day in the office of the _Daily News_ a tall, shambling, -awkward-looking man in a brown flannel shirt, without coat or waistcoat, -suspenders down, was pointed out to me by an office boy who saw him -slipping past the city editorial door. - -“Wanta know who dat is?” he asked. - -“Yes,” I replied humbly, grateful even for the attention of office boys. - -“Well, dat’s Eugene Field. Heard o’ him, ain’tcha?” - -“Sure,” I said, recalling the bundle of incoherent MS. which I had once -thrust upon him. I surveyed his retreating figure with envy and some -nervousness, fearing he might psychically detect that I was the -perpetrator of that unsolicited slush and abuse me then and there. - -In spite of my energy, manifested for one solid week between the hours -of twelve and two at noon and five-thirty and seven at night I got -nothing. Indeed it seemed to me as I went about these newspaper offices -that they were the strangest, coldest, most haphazard and impractical of -places. Gone was that fine ambassadorial quality with which a few months -before I had invested them. These rooms, as I now saw, were crowded with -commonplace desks and lamps, the floors strewn with newspapers. Office -boys and hirelings gazed at you in the most unfriendly manner, asked -what you wanted and insisted that there was nothing—they who knew -nothing. By office boys I was told to come after one or two in the -afternoon or after seven at night, when all assignments had been given -out, and when I did so I was told that there was nothing and would be -nothing. I began to feel desperate. - -Just about this time I had an inspiration. I determined that, instead of -trying to see all of the editors each day and missing most of them at -the vital hour, I would select one paper and see if in some way I could -not worm myself into the good graces of its editor. I now had the very -sensible notion that a small paper would probably receive me with more -consideration than one of the great ones, and out of them all chose the -_Daily Globe_, a struggling affair financed by one of the Chicago -politicians for political purposes only. - -You have perhaps seen a homeless cat hang about a doorstep for days and -days meowing to be taken in: that was I. The door in this case was a -side door and opened upon an alley. Inside was a large, bare room filled -with a few rows of tables set end to end, with a railing across the -northern one-fourth, behind which sat the city editor, the dramatic and -sporting editors, and one editorial writer. Outside this railing, near -the one window, sat a large, fleshy gelatinous, round-faced round-headed -young man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles. He had a hard, keen, cynical -eye, and at first glance seemed to be most vitally opposed to me and -everybody else. As it turned out, he was the _Daily Globe’s_ -copy-reader. Nothing was said to me at first as I sat in my far corner -waiting for something to turn up. By degrees some of the reporters began -to talk to me, thinking I was a member of the staff, which eased my -position a little during this time. I noticed that as soon as all the -reporters had gone the city editor became most genial with the one -editorial writer, who sat next him, and the two often went off together -for a bite. - -Parlous and yet delicious hours! Although I felt all the time as though -I were on the edge of some great change, still no one seemed to want me. -The city editor, when I approached after all the others had gone, would -shake his head and say: “Nothing today. There’s not a thing in sight,” -but not roughly or harshly, and therein lay my hope. So here I would -sit, reading the various papers or trying to write out something I had -seen. I was always on the alert for some accident that I might report to -this city editor in the hope that he had not seen it, but I encountered -nothing. - -The ways of advancement are strange, so often purely accidental. I did -not know it, but my mere sitting here in this fashion eventually proved -a card in my favor. A number of the employed reporters, of whom there -were eight or nine (the best papers carried from twenty to thirty), -seeing me sit about from twelve to two and thinking I was employed here -also, struck up occasional genial and enlightening conversations with -me. Reporters rarely know the details of staff arrangements or changes. -Some of them, finding that I was only seeking work, ignored me; others -gave me a bit of advice. Why didn’t I see Selig of the _Tribune_, or -Herbst of the _Herald_? It was rumored that staff changes were to be -made there. One youth learning that I had never written a line for a -newspaper, suggested that I go to the editor of the City Press -Association or the United Press, where the most inexperienced beginners -were put to work at the rate of eight dollars a week. This did not suit -me at all. I felt that I could write. - -Finally, however, my mere sitting about in this fashion brought me into -contact with that copy-reader I have described, John Maxwell, who -remarked one day out of mere curiosity: - -“Are you doing anything special for the _Globe_?” - -“No,” I replied. - -“Just looking for work?” - -“Yes.” - -“Ever work on any paper?” - -“No.” - -“How do you know you can write?” - -“I don’t. I just feel that I can. I want to see if I can’t get a chance -to try.” - -He looked at me, curiously, amusedly, cynically. - -“Don’t you ever go around to the other papers?” - -“Yes, after I find out there’s nothing here.” - -He smiled. “How long have you been coming here like this?” - -“Two weeks.” - -“Every day?” - -“Every day.” - -He laughed now, a genial, rolling, fat laugh. - -“Why do you pick the _Globe_? Don’t you know it’s the poorest paper in -Chicago?” - -“That’s why I pick it,” I replied innocently. “I thought I might get a -chance here.” - -“Oh, you did!” he laughed. “Well, you may be right at that. Hang around. -You may get something. Now I’ll tell you something: this National -Democratic Convention will open in June. They’ll have to take on a few -new men here then. I can’t see why they shouldn’t give you a chance as -well as anybody else. But it’s a hell of a business to be wanting to get -into,” he added. - -He began taking off his coat and waistcoat, rolling up his sleeves, -sharpening his blue pencils and taking up stacks of copy. The while I -merely stared at him. Every now and then he would look at me through his -round glasses as though I were some strange animal. I grew restless and -went out. But after that he greeted me each day in a friendly way, and -because he seemed inclined to talk I stayed and talked with him. - -What it was that finally drew us together in a minor bond of friendship -I have never been able to discover. I am sure he considered me of little -intellectual or reportorial import and yet also I gathered that he liked -me a little. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the moment of our -first conversation and included me in what I might call the _Globe_ -family spirit. He was interested in politics, literature, and the -newspaper life of Chicago. Bit by bit he informed me as to the various -editors, who were the most successful newspaper men, how some reporters -did police, some politics, and some just general news. From him I -learned that every paper carried a sporting editor, a society editor, a -dramatic editor, a political man. There were managing editors, Sunday -editors, news editors, city editors, copy-readers and editorial writers, -all of whom seemed to me marvelous—men of the very greatest import. And -they earned—which was more amazing still—salaries ranging from eighteen -to thirty-five and even sixty and seventy dollars a week. From him I -learned that this newspaper world was a seething maelstrom in which -clever men struggled and fought as elsewhere; that some rose and many -fell; that there was a roving element among newspaper men that drifted -from city to city, many drinking themselves out of countenance, others -settling down somewhere into some fortunate berth. Before long he told -me that only recently he had been copy-reader on the Chicago _Times_ but -due to what he characterized as “office politics,” a term the meaning of -which I in no wise grasped, he had been jockeyed out of his place. He -seemed to think that by and large newspaper men while interesting and in -some cases able, were tricky and shifty and above all, disturbingly and -almost heartlessly inconsiderate of each other. Being young and -inexperienced this point of view made no impression on me whatsoever. If -I thought anything I thought that he must be wrong, or that, at any -rate, this heartlessness would never trouble me in any way, being the -live and industrious person that I was. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - - -IT made me happy to know that whether or not I was taken on I had at -least achieved one friend at court. Maxwell advised me to stick. - -“You’ll get on,” he said a day or two later. “I believe you’ve got the -stuff in you. Maybe I can help you. You’ll probably be like every other -damned newspaper man once you get a start: an ingrate; but I’ll help you -just the same. Hang around. That convention will begin in three or four -weeks now. I’ll speak a good word for you, unless you tie up with some -other paper before then.” - -And to my astonishment really, he was as good as his word. He must have -spoken to the city editor soon after this, for the latter asked me what -I had been doing and told me to hang around in case something should -turn up. - -But before a newspaper story appeared for me to do a new situation arose -which tied me up closer with this prospect than I had hoped for. The -lone editorial writer previously mentioned, a friend and intimate of the -city editor, had just completed a small work of fiction which he and the -city editor in combination had had privately printed, and which they -were very eager to sell. It was, as I recall it, very badly done, an -immature imitation of _Tom Sawyer_ without any real charm or human -interest. The author himself, Mr. Gissel, was a picayune yellow-haired -person. He spent all his working hours, as I came to know, writing those -biased, envenomed and bedeviling editorials which are required by purely -partisan journals. I gathered as much from conversations that were -openly carried on before me between himself and the city editor, the -managing editor and an individual who I later learned was the political -man. They were “out” as I heard the managing editor say, one day “to -get” some one—on orders from some individual of whom at that time I knew -nothing, and Mr. Gissel was your true henchman or editorial mercenary, a -“peanut” or “squeak” writer, penning what he was ordered to pen. Once I -understood I despised him but at first he amused me though I could not -like him. Whenever he had concocted some particularly malicious or -defaming line as I learned in time, he would get up and dance about, -chortling and cackling in a disconcerting way. So for the first time I -began to see how party councils and party tendencies were manufactured -or twisted or belied, and it still further reduced my estimate of -humanity. Men, as I was beginning to find—all of us—were small, -irritable, nasty in their struggle for existence. This little editor, -for instance, was not interested in the Democratic party (which this -paper was supposed to represent), or indeed in party principles of any -kind. He did not believe what he wrote, but, receiving forty dollars a -week, he was anxious to make a workmanlike job of it. Just at this time -he was engaged in throwing mud at the national Republican -administration, the mayor and the governor, as well as various local -politicians, whom the owner of the paper wished him to attack. - -What a pitiful thing journalism or our alleged “free press” was, I then -and there began to gather—dimly enough at first I must admit. What a -shabby compound of tricky back-room councils, public professions, all -looking to public favors and fames which should lead again to public -contracts and financial emoluments! Journalism, like politics, as I was -now soon to see, was a slough of muck in which men were raking busily -and filthily for what their wretched rakes might uncover in the way of -financial, social, political returns. I looked at this dingy office and -then at this little yellow-haired rat of an editor one afternoon as he -worked, and it came to me what a desperately subtle and shifty thing -life was. Here he was, this little runt, scribbling busily, and above -him were strong, dark, secretive men, never appearing publicly perhaps -but paying him his little salary privately, dribbling it down to him -through a publisher and an editor-in-chief and a managing editor, so -that he might be kept busy misconstruing, lying, intellectually -cheating. - -But the plan he had in regard to his book: The graduating class of the -Hyde Park High School, of which he had been a member a few years before, -had numbered about three hundred students. Of these two hundred were -girls, one hundred and fifty of whom he claimed to have known -personally. One afternoon as I was preparing to leave after all the -assignments had been given out, the city editor called me over and, with -the help of this scheming little editorial writer, began to explain to -me a plan by which, if I carried it out faithfully, I could connect -myself with the _Daily Globe_ as a reporter. I was to take a certain -list of names and addresses and as many copies of _The Adventures of -Harry Munn_, or some such name, as I could carry and visit each of these -quondam schoolmates of Mr. Gissel at their homes, where I was to recall -to their minds that he was an old schoolmate of theirs, that this his -first book related to scenes with which they were all familiar, and then -persuade them if possible to buy a copy for one dollar. My reward for -this was to be ten cents a copy on all copies sold, and in addition (and -this was the real bait) I was to have a tryout on the _Globe_ as a -reporter at fifteen dollars a week if I succeeded in selling one hundred -and twenty copies within the next week or so. - -I took the list and gathered up an armful of the thin cloth-covered -volumes, fired by the desire thus to make certain my entrance into the -newspaper world. I cannot say that I was very much pleased with my -mission, but my necessity or aspiration was so great that I was glad to -do it just the same. I was nervous and shamefaced as I approached the -first home on my list, and I suffered aches and pains in my vanity and -my sense of the fitness of things. The only salve I could find in the -whole thing was that Mr. Gissel actually knew these people and that I -could say I came personally from him as a friend and fellow-member of -the _Globe_ staff. It was a thin subterfuge, but apparently it went down -with a few of those pretty unsophisticated girls. The majority of them -lived in the best residences of the south side, some of them mansions of -the truly rich whose democratic parents had insisted upon sending their -children to the local high school. In each case, upon inquiring for a -girl, with the remark that I came from Mr. Gissel of the _Globe_, I was -received in the parlor or reception-room and told to wait. Presently the -girl would come bustling in and listen to my tactful story, smiling -contemptuously perhaps at my shabby mission or opening her eyes in -surprise or curiosity. - -“Mr. Gissel? Mr. Gissel?” said one girl inquiringly. “Why, I don’t -recall any such person——” and she retired, leaving me to make my way out -as best I might. - -Another exclaimed: “Harry Gissel! Has that little snip written a book? -The nerve—to send you around to sell his book! Why do you do it? I will -take one, because I am curious to see the kind of thing he has done, but -I’ll wager right now it’s as silly as he is. He’s invented some scheme -to get you to do this because he knows he couldn’t sell the book in any -other way.” - -Others remembered him and seemed to like him; others bought the book -only because he was a member of their class. Some struck up a genial -conversation with me. - -In spite of my distress at having to do this work there were -compensations. It gave me a last fleeting picture of that new, sunny -prosperity which was the most marked characteristic of Chicagoans of -that day, and contrasted so sharply with the scenes of poverty which I -had recently seen. In this region, for it was June, newly fledged -collegians, freshly returned from the colleges of the East and Europe, -were disporting themselves about the lawns and within the open-windowed -chambers of the houses. Traps and go-carts of many of the financially -and socially elect filled the south side streets. The lawn tennis suit, -the tennis game, the lawn party and the family croquet game were -everywhere in evidence. The new-rich and those most ambitious -financially at that time were peculiarly susceptible I think to the airs -and manners of the older and more pretentious regions of the world. They -were bent upon interpreting their new wealth in terms of luxury as they -had observed it elsewhere. Hence these strutting youths in English suits -with turned-up trousers, swagger sticks and flori-colored ties and socks -intended to suggest the spirit of London, as they imagined it to be; -hence the high-headed girls in flouncy, lacy dresses, their cheeks and -eyes bright with color, who no doubt imagined themselves to be great -ladies, and who carried themselves with an air of remote disdain. The -whole thing had the quality of a play well staged: really the houses, -the lawns, the movements of the people, their games and interests all -harmonizing after the fashion of a play. They saw this as a great end in -itself, which, perhaps, it is. To me in my life-hungry, love-hungry -state, this new-rich prosperity with its ease, its pretty women and its -effort at refinement was quite too much. It set me to riotous dreaming -and longing made me ache to lounge and pose after this same fashion. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER IX - - -IN due course of time, I having performed my portion of the contract, it -became the duty of the two editors to fulfill their agreement with me. -Every day for ten days I had been turning in the cash for from five to -fifteen books, thereby establishing my reputation for industry and -sobriety. Mr. Gissel was very anxious to know at the end of each day -whom I had seen and how the mention of his name was received. Instead of -telling him of the many who laughed or sniffed or bought to get rid of -me gracefully, I gave him flattering reports. Lately, by way of reward I -presume, he had taken to reading to me the cleverest passages in his -editorials. Mr. Sullivan, the city editor, confided to me one day that -he was from a small town in central Illinois not unlike the Warsaw from -which I hailed, and which I then roughly and jestingly sketched to him, -and from then on we were on fairly good terms. He dug up a number of -poems and granted me the favor of reading them. Some of them were almost -as good as similar ones by Whittier and Bryant, after whom they were -obviously modeled. Today I know them to be bad, or mediocre; then I -thought they were excellent and grieved to think that any one should be -going to make a reputation as a great poet, while I, the only real poet -extant (although I had done nothing as yet to prove it), remained -unrecognized. - -I did not know until later that I might not have secured a place even -now, so numerous were the applications of clever and experienced -newspaper men, had it not been for the influence of my friend Maxwell. -For one reason or another, my errant youth perhaps, my crazy persistence -and general ignorance of things journalistic, he had become interested -in me and seemed fairly anxious to see me get a start. Out of the tail -of his eye he had been watching. When I arrived of an evening and there -was no one present he sometimes inquired what I was doing, and by -degrees, although I had been cautioned not to tell, he extracted the -whole story of Gissel’s book. I even loaned him a copy of the book, -which he read and pronounced rot, adding: “They ought to be ashamed of -themselves, sending you out on a job of this kind. You’re better than -that.” - -As the end of my task drew near and I was dreading another uncertain -wait, he put in a good word for me. But even then I doubt if I should -have had a trial had it not been for the convention which was rapidly -drawing near. On the day the newspapers were beginning to chronicle the -advance arrival of various leaders from all parts of the country, I was -taken on at fifteen dollars a week, for a week or two anyhow, and -assigned to watch the committee rooms in the hotels Palmer, Grand -Pacific, Auditorium and Richelieu. There was another youth who was set -to work with me on this, and he gave me some slight instruction. Over us -was the political man, who commanded other men in different hotels and -whose presence I had only noted when the convention was nearly over. - -If ever a youth was cast adrift and made to realize that he knew nothing -at all about the thing he was so eager to do, that youth was I. “Cover -the hotels for political news,” were my complete instructions, but what -the devil was political news? What did they want me to do, say, write? -At once I was thoroughly terrified by this opportunity which I had so -eagerly sought, for now that I had it I did not know how to make -anything clear. - -For the first day or two or three therefore I wandered like a lost soul -about the corridors and parlor floors and “committee rooms” of these -hotels which I was supposed to cover, trying to find out where the -committee rooms were, who and what were the men in them, what they were -trying to do. No one seemed to want to tell me anything, and, as dull as -it may seem, I really could not guess. I had no clear idea of what was -meant by the word “politics” as locally used. Various country -congressmen and politicians brushed past me in a most secretive manner; -when I hailed them with the information that I was from the _Globe_ they -waved me off with: “I am only a delegate; you can’t get anything out of -me. See the chairman.” Well, what was a chairman? I didn’t know. I did -not even know that there had been lists published in all the papers, my -own included, giving the information which I was so anxiously seeking! - -I had no real understanding of politics or party doings or organization. -I doubt if I knew how men came to be nominated, let alone elected. I did -not know who were the various State leaders, who the prospective -candidates, why one candidate might be preferred to another. The -machinations of such an institution as Tammany Hall, or the things -called property interests, were as yet beyond me. My mind was too much -concerned with the poetry of life to busy itself with such minor things -as politics. However, I did know that there was a bitter feud on between -David Bennett Hill, governor of New York, and Grover Cleveland, -ex-President of the United States, both candidates for nomination on the -Democratic ticket, and that the Tammany organization of New York City -was for Hill and bitterly opposed to Cleveland. I also knew that the -South was for any good Southerner as opposed to Cleveland or Hill, and -that a new element in the party was for Richard Bland, better known as -“Silver Dick,” of Missouri. I also knew by reputation many of the men -who had been in the first Cleveland administration. - -Imagine a raw youth with no knowledge of the political subtleties of -America trying to gather even an inkling of what was going on! The -nation and the city were full of dark political trafficking, but of it -all I was as innocent as a baby. The bars and lobbies were full of -inconsequential spouting delegates, who drank, swore, sang and orated at -the top of their lungs. Swinging Southerners and Westerners in their -long frockcoats and wide-brimmed hats amused me. They were forever -pulling their whiskers or mustachios, drinking, smoking, talking or -looking solemn or desperate. In many cases they knew no more of what was -going on than I did. I was told to watch the movements of Benjamin Ryan -Tillman, senator from South Carolina, and report any conclusions or -rumors of conclusions as to how his delegation would vote. I had a hard -time finding where his committee was located, and where and when if ever -it deliberated, but once I identified my man I never left him. I dogged -his steps so persistently that he turned on me one afternoon as he was -going out of the Palmer House, fixed me with his one fiery eye and said: - -“Young man, what do you want of me anyhow?” - -“Well, you’re Senator Tillman, aren’t you?” - -“Yes, sir. I’m Senator Tillman.” - -“Well, I’m a reporter from the _Globe_. I’ve been told to learn what -conclusions your delegation has reached as to how it will vote.” - -“You and your editor of the _Globe_ be damned!” he replied irritably. -“And I want you to quit following me wherever I go. Just now I’m going -for my laundry, and I have some rights to privacy. The committee will -decide when it’s good and ready, and it won’t tell the _Globe_ or any -other paper. Now you let me alone. Follow somebody else.” - -I went back to the office the first evening at five-thirty and sat down -to write, with the wild impression in my mind that I must describe the -whole political situation not only in Chicago but in the nation. I had -no notion that there was a supervising political man who, in conjunction -with the managing editor and editor-in-chief, understood all about -current political conditions. - -“The political pot,” I began exuberantly, “was already beginning to -seethe yesterday. About the lobbies and corridors of the various hotels -hundreds upon hundreds of the vanguard of American Democracy—etc, etc.” - -I had not scrawled more than eight or nine pages of this mush before the -city editor, curious as to what I had discovered and wondering why I had -not reported it to him, came over and picked up the many sheets which I -had turned face down. - -“No, no, no!” he exclaimed. “You mustn’t write on both sides of the -paper! Don’t you know that? For heaven’s sake. And all this stuff about -the political pot boiling is as old as the hills. Why, every country -jake paper for thousands of miles East and West has used it for years -and years. You’re not to write the general stuff. Here, Maxwell, see if -you can’t find out what Dreiser has discovered and show him what to do -with it. I haven’t got time.” And he turned me over to my -gold-spectacled mentor, who eyed me very severely. He sat down and -examined my copy with knitted brows. He had a round, meaty, cherubic -face which seemed all the more ominous because he could scowl fiercely, -and his eyes could blaze with a cold, examining, mandatory glance. - -“This is awful stuff!” he said as he read the first page. “He’s quite -right. You want to try and remember that you’re not the editor of this -paper and just consider yourself a plain reporter sent out to cover some -hotels. Now where’d you go today?” - -I told him. - -“What’d you see?” - -I described as best I could the whirling world in which I had been. - -“No, no! I don’t mean that! That might be good for a book or something -but it’s not news. Did you see any particular man? Did you find out -anything in connection with any particular committee?” - -I confessed that I had tried and failed. - -“Very good!” he said. “You haven’t anything to write,” and he tore up my -precious nine pages and threw them into the waste basket. “You’d better -sit around here now until the city editor calls you,” he added. “He may -have something special he wants you to do. If not, watch the hotels for -celebrities—Democratic celebrities—or committee meetings, and if you -find any try to find out what’s going on. The great thing is to discover -beforehand who’s going to be nominated—see? You can’t tell from talking -to four or five people, but what you find out may help some one else to -piece out what is to happen. When you come back, see me. And unless you -get other orders, come back by eleven. And call up two or three times -between the time you go and eleven.” - -Because of these specific instructions I felt somewhat encouraged, -although my first attempt at writing had been thrown into the waste -basket. I sat about until nearly seven, when I was given an address and -told to find John G. Carlisle, ex-Secretary of the Treasury, and see if -I could get an interview with him. Failing this, I was to “cover” the -Grand Pacific, Palmer House and Auditorium, and report all important -arrivals and delegations. - -Even if I had secured the desired interview I am sure I should have made -an awful botch of it, but fortunately I could not get it. Only one thing -of importance developed for me during the evening, and that was the -presence of a Democratic United States Supreme Court Justice at the -Grand Pacific who, upon being intercepted by me as he was going to his -room for the night and told that I was from the _Globe_, eyed me -genially and whimsically. - -“My boy,” he said, “you’re just a young new reporter, I can see that. -Otherwise you wouldn’t waste your time on me. But I like reporters: I -was one myself years ago. Now this hotel and every other is full of -leaders and statesmen discussing this question of who’s to be President. -I’m not discussing it, first of all because it wouldn’t become a Justice -of the United States Supreme Court to do so, and in the next place -because I don’t have to: my position is for life. I’m just stopping here -for one day on my way to Denver. You’d better go around to these -committee rooms and see if they can’t tell you something,” and, smiling -and laying one hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way, he dismissed me. - -“My!” I thought. “What a fine thing it is to be a reporter! All I have -to do is to say I’m from the _Globe_ and even a Justice of the United -States Supreme Court is smiling and agreeable to me!” - -I hurried to a phone to tell Maxwell, and he said: “He don’t count. -Write a stick of it if you want to, and I’ll look it over.” - -“How much is a stick?” I asked eagerly and curiously. - -“About a hundred and fifty words.” - -So much for a United States Supreme Court Justice in election days. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER X - - -I CANNOT say that I discovered anything of import this night or the next -or the next, although I secured various interviews which, after much -wrestling with my spirit and some hard, intelligent, frank statements -from my friend, were whipped into shape for fillers. - -“The trouble with you, Dreiser,” said Maxwell as I was trying to write -out what the Supreme Court Justice had said to me, “is that you haven’t -any training and you’re trying to get it now when we haven’t the time. -Over in the _Tribune_ office they have a sign which reads: WHO OR WHAT? -HOW? WHEN? WHERE? All those things have to be answered in the first -paragraph—not in the last paragraph, or the middle paragraph, but in the -first. Now come here. Gimme that stuff,” and he cut and hacked, running -thick lines of blue lead through my choicest thoughts and restating in a -line or two all that I thought required ten. A sardonic smile played -about his fat mouth, and I saw by his twinkling eyes that he felt that -it was good for me. - -“News is information,” he went on as he worked. “People want it quick, -sharp, clear—do you hear? Now you probably think I’m a big stiff, -chopping up your great stuff like this, but if you live and hold this -job you’ll thank me. As a matter of fact, if it weren’t for me you -wouldn’t have this job now. Not one copy-reader out of a hundred would -take the trouble to show you,” and he looked at me with hard, cynical -and yet warm gray eyes. - -I was wretched with the thought that I should be dropped once the -convention was over, and so I bustled here and there, anxious to find -something. Of a morning, from six o’clock until noon, I studied all the -papers, trying to discover what all this fanfare was about and just what -was expected of me. The one great thing to find out was who was to be -nominated and which delegations or individuals would support the -successful candidate. Where could I get the information? The third day I -talked to Maxwell about it, and as a favor he brought out a paper in -which a rough augury was made which showed that the choice lay between -David Bennett Hill and Grover Cleveland, with a third man, Senator -McEntee, as a dark horse. Southern sentiment seemed to be centering -about him, and in case no agreement could be reached by the New York -delegation as to which of its two opposing candidates it would support -their vote might be thrown to this third man. - -Of course this was all very confusing to me. I did my best to get it -straight. Learning that the Tammany delegation, two thousand strong, was -to arrive from New York this same day and that the leaders were to be -quartered at the Auditorium, I made my way there, determined to obtain -an interview with no less a person than Richard Croker, who, along with -Bourke Cochran, and a hard-faced, beefy individual by the name of John -F. Carroll seemed to be the brains and mouthpiece of the Tammany -organization. In honor of their presence, the Auditorium was decorated -with flags and banners, some of them crossed with tomahawks or Indian -feathers. Above the onyx-lined bar was a huge tiger with a stiff -projecting tail which when pulled downward, as it was every few seconds -by one bartender and another, caused the _papier-mâché_ image to emit a -deep growl. This delighted the crowd, and after each growl there was -another round of drinks. Red-faced men in silk hats and long frockcoats -slapped each other on the back and bawled out their joy or threats or -prophecies. - -On the first floor above the office of the hotel, were Richard Croker, -his friend and adviser, Carroll, and Bourke Cochran. They sat in the -center of a great room on a huge red plush divan, receiving and talking. - -As a representative of the _Globe_, a cheap nickel star fastened to one -of the lapels of my waistcoat and concealed by my coat, my soul stirred -by being allowed to mingle in affairs of great import, I finally made my -way to the footstool of this imposing group and ventured to ask for an -interview with Croker himself. The great man, short, stocky, carefully, -almost too carefully, dressed, his face the humanized replica of that of -a tiger, looked at me in a genial, quizzical, condescending way and -said: “No interviews.” I remember the patent leather button shoes with -the gray suède tops, the heavy gold ring on one finger, and the heavy -watch-chain across his chest. - -“You won’t say who is to be nominated?” I persisted nervously. - -“I wish I could,” he grinned. “I wouldn’t be sitting here trying to find -out.” He smiled again and repeated my question to one of his companions. -They all looked at me with smiling condescension and I beat a swift -retreat. - -Defeated though I was, I decided to write out the little scene, largely -to prove to the city editor that I had actually seen Croker and been -refused an interview. - -I went down to the bar to review the scene being enacted there. While I -was standing at the bar drinking a lemonade there came a curious lull. -In the midst of it the voices of two men near me became audible as they -argued who would be nominated, Cleveland, Hill or some third man, not -the one I have mentioned. Bursting with my new political knowledge and -longing to air it, I, at the place where one of the strangers mentioned -the third man as the most likely choice, solemnly shook my head as much -as to say: “You are all wrong.” - -“Well, then, who do you think?” inquired the stranger, who was short, -red-faced, intoxicated. - -“Senator McEntee, of South Carolina,” I replied, feeling as though I -were stating an incontrovertible truth. - -A tall, fair-complexioned, dark-haired Southerner in a wide-brimmed -white hat and flaring frockcoat paused at this moment in his hurried -passage through the room and, looking at the group, exclaimed: - -“Who does me the honah to mention my name in connection with the -Presidency? I am Senator McEntee of South Carolina. No intrusion, I -hope?” - -I and the two others stared in confusion. - -“None whatever,” I replied with an air, thinking how interesting it was -that this man of all people should be passing through the room at this -time. “These gentlemen were saying that —— of —— would be nominated, and -I was going to say that sentiment is running more in your favor.” - -“Well, now, that is most interesting, my young friend, and I’m glad to -hear you say it. It’s an honah to be even mentioned in connection with -so great an office, however small my qualifications. And who are you, -may I ask?” - -“My name in Dreiser. I represent the Chicago _Globe_.” - -“Oh, do you? That makes it doubly interesting. Won’t you come along with -me to my rooms for a moment? You interest me, young man, you really do. -How long have you been a reporter?” - -“Oh, for nearly a year now,” I replied grandly. - -“And have you ever worked for any other paper?” - -“Yes; I was on the _Herald_ last fall.” - -He seemed elated by his discovery. He must have been one of those -swelling nonentities flattered silly by this chance discussion of his -name in a national convention atmosphere. An older newspaper man would -have known that he had not the least chance of being seriously -considered. Somebody from the South had to be mentioned, as a -compliment, and this man was fixed upon as one least likely to prove -disturbing later. - -He bustled out to a shady balcony overlooking the lake, ordered two -cocktails and wanted to know on what I based my calculation. In order to -not seem a fool I now went over my conversation with Maxwell. I spoke of -different delegations and their complexions as though these conclusions -were my own, when as a matter of fact I was quoting Maxwell verbatim. My -hearer seemed surprised at my intelligence. - -“You seem to be very well informed,” he said genially, “but I know -you’re wrong. The Democratic party will never go to the South for a -candidate—not for some years anyway. Just the same, since you’ve been -good enough to champion me in this public fashion, I would like to do -something for you in return. I suppose your paper is always anxious for -advance news, and if you bring it in you get the credit. Now at this -very moment, over in the Hotel Richelieu, Mr. William C. Whitney and -some of his friends—Mr. Croker has just gone over there—are holding a -conference. He is the one man who holds the balance of power in this -convention. He represents the moneyed interests and is heart and soul -for Grover Cleveland. Now if you want a real beat you’d better go over -there and hang about. Mr. Whitney is sure to make a statement some time -today or tomorrow. See his secretary, Mr. ——, and tell him I sent you. -He will do anything for you he can.” - -I thanked him, certain at last I had a real piece of news. This -conference was the most important event that would or could take place -in the whole convention. I was so excited that I wanted to jump up and -run away. - -“It will keep,” he said, noting my nervousness. “No other newspaper man -knows of it yet. Nothing will be given out yet for several hours because -the conference will not be over before that time.” - -“But I’d like to phone my office,” I pleaded. - -“All right, but come back.” - -I ran to the nearest telephone. I explained my beat to the city editor -and, anxious lest I be unable to cover it, asked him to inform the head -political man. He was all excitement at once, congratulated me and told -me to follow up this conference. Then I ran back to my senator. - -“I see,” he said, “that you are a very industrious and eager young man. -I like to see that. I don’t want to say anything which will set up your -hopes too much, because things don’t always work out as one would wish, -but did any one ever suggest to you that you would make a good private -secretary?” - -“No, sir,” I replied, flattered and eager. - -“Well, from what I have seen here today I am inclined to think you -would. Now I don’t know that I shall be returned to the Senate after -this year—there’s a little dispute in my State—but if I am, and you want -to write me after next January, I may be able to do something for you. -I’ve seen a lot of bright young fellows come up in the newspaper -profession, and I’ve seen a lot go down. If you’re not too much attached -to it, perhaps you would like this other better.” - -He smiled serenely, and I could have kissed his hands. At the same time, -if you please, I was already debating whether one so promising as myself -should leave the newspaper profession! - -But even more than my good fortune at gleaning this bit of news or beat, -as it proved, I was impressed by the company I was keeping and the realm -in which I now moved as if by right—great hotels, a newspaper office -with which I was connected, this senator, these politicians, the display -of comfort and luxury on every hand. Only a little while back I was an -inexperienced, dreaming collector for an “easy-payment” company, and now -look at me! Here I sat on this grand balcony, the senator to my right, a -table between us, all the lovely panorama of the lake and Michigan Drive -below. What a rise! From now on, no doubt, I would do much better. Was I -not even now being offered the secretaryship to a senator? - -In due time I left and ran to the Richelieu, but my brain was seething -with my great rise and my greater achievement in being the first to know -of and report to my paper this decisive conference. If that were true I -should certainly have discovered what my paper and all papers were most -eager to know. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XI - - -WHAT the senator had told me was true. The deciding conference was on, -and I determined to hang about the corridors of the Richelieu until it -was over. The secretary, whom I found closeted with others (not -newspaper men) in a room on the second floor, was good enough to see me -when I mentioned Senator McEntee’s name, and told me to return at -six-thirty, when he was sure the conference would be over and a general -statement be issued to the press. If I wished, I might come back at -five-thirty. This dampened my joy in the thought that I had something -exclusive, though I was later cheered by the thought that I had probably -saved my paper from defeat anyhow for we were too poor to belong to the -general news service. As a matter of fact, my early information was a -cause of wonder in the office, the political man himself coming down -late in the night to find out how I had learned so soon. I spoke of my -friend Senator McEntee as though I had known him for years. The -political man merely looked at me and said: “Well, you ought to get -along in politics on one of the papers, if nowhere else.” - -The capture of this one fact, as I rather felt at the time, was my -making in this newspaper office and hence in the newspaper world at -large, in so far as I ever was made. - -At five-thirty that afternoon I was on hand, and, true to his word, the -secretary outlined exactly what conclusions the conference had reached. -Afterward he brought out a type-written statement and read from it such -facts as he wished me to have. Cleveland was to be nominated. Another -man, Adlai Stevenson of Illinois, of whom I had never heard, was to be -nominated for Vice-President. There were other details, so confusing -that I could scarcely grasp them, but I made some notes and flew to the -office and tried to write out all I had heard. I know now that I made a -very bad job of it, but Maxwell worked so hard and so cheerfully that he -saved me. From one source and another he confirmed or modified my -statements, wrote an intelligent introduction and turned it in. - -“You’re one of the damnedest crack-brained loons I ever saw,” he said at -one place, cutting out a great slice of my stuff, “but you seem to know -how to get the news just the same, and you’re going to be able to write. -If I could just keep you under my thumb for four or five weeks I think I -could make something out of you.” - -At this I ventured to lay one hand over his shoulder in an affectionate -and yet appealing way, but he looked up frowningly and said: “Cut the -gentle con work, Theodore. I know you. You’re just like all other -newspaper men, or will be: grateful when things are coming your way. If -I were out of a job or in your position you’d do just like all the -others: pass me up. I know you better than you know yourself. Life is a -God-damned stinking, treacherous game, and nine hundred and ninety-nine -men out of every thousand are bastards. I don’t know why I do this for -you,” and he cut some more of my fine writing, “but I like you. I don’t -expect to get anything back. I never do. People always trim me when I -want anything. There’s nobody home if I’m knocking. But I’m such a -God-damned fool that I like to do it. But don’t think I’m not on, or -that I’m a genial ass that can be worked by every Tom, Dick and Harry.” -And after visiting me with that fat superior smile he went on working. I -stared, nervous, restless, resentful, sorrowful, trying to justify -myself to life and to him. - -“If I had a real chance,” I said, “I would soon show you.” - -The convention opened its sessions the next day, and because of my -seeming cleverness I was given a front seat in the press-stand, where I -could hear all speeches, observe the crowd, trade ideas with the best -newspaper men in the city and the country. In a day, if you will believe -it, and in spite of the fact that I was getting only fifteen dollars a -week, my stock had risen so that, in this one office at least, I was -looked upon as a newspaper man of rare talent, an extraordinarily bright -boy sure to carve out a future for himself, one to be made friends with -and helped. Here in this press-stand I was now being coached by one -newspaper man and another in the intricacies of convention life. I was -introduced to two other members of our staff who were supposed to be -experienced men, both of them small, clever, practical-minded -individuals well adapted to the work in hand. One of them, Harry L. -Dunlap, followed my errant fortunes for years, securing a place through -me in St. Louis and rising finally to be the confidential adviser of one -of our Presidents, William Howard Taft—a not very remarkable President -to be adviser to at that. The other, a small brown-suited soul, Brady by -name, came into my life for a very little while and then went, I know -not where. - -But this convention, how it thrilled me! To be tossed into the vortex of -national politics at a time when the country was seething over the -possible resuscitation of the old Democratic party to strength and power -was something like living. I listened to the speeches, those dully -conceived flights and word gymnastics and pyrotechnics whereby backwoods -statesmen, district leaders and personality-followers seek to foist upon -the attention of the country their own personalities as well as those of -the individuals whom they admire. Although it was generally known that -Cleveland was to be nominated (the money power of America having fixed -upon him) and it was useless to name any one else, still as many as ten -different “statesmen” great leaders, saviors were put in nomination. -Each man so mentioned was the beau ideal of a nation’s dream of a -leader, a statesman, a patriot, lover of liberty and of the people. This -in itself was a liberal education and slowly but surely opened my eyes. -I watched with amazement this love of fanfare and noise, the way in -which various delegations and individual followers loved to shout and -walk up and down waving banners and blowing horns. Different States or -cities had sent large delegations, New York a marching club two thousand -strong, all of whom had seats in this hall, and all were plainly -instructed to yell and demonstrate at the mention of a given name. - -The one thing I heard which seemed rather important at the time, -beautiful, because of a man’s voice and gestures, was a speech by Bourke -Cochran, exhorting the convention to nominate his candidate, David -Bennett Hill, and save the party from defeat. Indeed his speech, until -later I heard William Jennings Bryan, seemed to me the best I had ever -heard, clear, sonorous, forcible, sensible. He had something to say and -he said it with art and seeming conviction. He had presence too, a sort -of Herculean, animal-like effrontery. He made his audience sit up and -pay attention to him, when as a matter of fact it was interested in -talking privately, one member to another. I tried to take notes of what -he was saying until one of my associates told me that the full minutes -of his speech could soon be secured from the shorthand reporters. - -Being in this great hall cheek by jowl with the best of the Chicago -newspaper world thrilled me. “Now,” I said to myself, “I am truly a -newspaper man. If I can only get interesting things to write about, my -fortune is made.” At once, as the different forceful reporters of the -city were pointed out to me (George Ade, Finley Peter Dunne, “Charlie” -Seymour, Charles d’Almy), my neck swelled as does a dog’s when a rival -appears on the scene. Already, at mere sight of them, I was anxious to -try conclusions with them on some important mission and so see which of -us was the better man. Always, up to the early thirties, I was so human -as to conceive almost a deadly opposition to any one who even looked as -though he might be able to try conclusions with me in anything. At that -time, I was ready for a row, believing, now that I had got thus far, -that I was destined to become one of the greatest newspaper men that -ever lived! - -But this convention brought me no additional glory. I did write a -flowery description of the thing as a whole, but only a portion of it -was used. I did get some details of committee work, which were probably -incorporated in the political man’s general summary. The next day, -Cleveland being nominated, interest fell off. Thousands packed their -bags and departed. I was used for a day or two about hotels gathering -one bit of news and another, but I could see that there was no import to -what I was doing and began to grow nervous lest I should be summarily -dropped. I spoke to Maxwell about it. - -“Do you think they’ll drop me?” I asked. - -“Not by a damned sight!” he replied contentiously. “You’ve earned a show -here; it’s been promised you; you’ve made good, and they ought to give -it to you. Don’t you say anything; just leave it to me. There’s going to -be a conference here tomorrow as to who’s to be dropped and who kept on, -and I’ll have my say then. You saved the day for us on that nomination -stuff, and that ought to get you a show. Leave it to me.” - -The conference took place the next day and of the five men who had been -taken on to do extra work during the convention I and one other were the -only ones retained, and this at the expense of two former reporters -dropped. At that, I really believe I should have been sent off if it had -not been for Maxwell. He had been present during most of the -transactions concerning Mr. Gissel’s book and thought I deserved work on -that score alone, to say nothing of my subsequent efforts. I think he -disliked the little editorial writer very much. At any rate when this -conference began Maxwell, according to Dunlap who was there and reported -to me, sat back, a look of contented cynicism on his face not unlike -that of a fox about to devour a chicken. The names of several of the new -men were proposed as substitutes for the old ones when, not hearing mine -mentioned, he inquired: - -“Well, what about Dreiser?” - -“Well, what about him?” retorted Sullivan, the city editor. “He’s a good -man, but he lacks training. These other fellows are experienced.” - -“I thought you and Gissel sort of agreed to give him a show if he sold -that book for you?” - -“No, I didn’t,” said Sullivan. “I only promised to give him a tryout -around convention time. I’ve done that.” - -“But he’s the best man on the staff today,” insisted Maxwell. “He -brought in the only piece of news worth having. He’s writing better -every day.” - -He bristled, according to Dunlap, and Sullivan and Gissel, taking the -hint that the quarrel might be carried higher up or aired -inconveniently, changed their attitude completely. - -“Oh, well,” said Sullivan genially, “let him come on. I’d just as lief -have him. He may pan out.” - -And so on I came, at fifteen dollars a week, and thus my newspaper -career was begun in earnest. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XII - - -THIS change from insecurity to being an accredited newspaper man was -delightful. For a very little while, a year or so, it seemed to open up -a clear straight course which if followed energetically must lead me to -great heights. Of course I found that beginners were very badly paid. -Salaries ranged from fourteen to twenty-five dollars for reporters; and -as for those important missions about which I had always been reading, -they were not even thought of here. The best I could learn of them in -this office was that they did exist—on some papers. Young men were still -sent abroad on missions, or to the West or to Africa (as Stanley), but -they had to be men of proved merit or budding genius and connected with -papers of the greatest importance. How could one prove oneself to be a -budding genius? - -Salary or no salary, however, I was now a newspaper man, with the -opportunity eventually to make a name for myself. Having broken with the -family and with my sister C——, I was now quite alone in the world and -free to go anywhere and do as I pleased. I found a front room in Ogden -Place overlooking Union Park (in which area I afterwards placed one of -my heroines). I could walk from here to the office in a little over -twenty minutes. My route lay through either Madison Street or Washington -Boulevard east to the river, and morning and night I had ample -opportunity to speculate on the rancid or out-at-elbows character of -much that I saw. Both Washington and Madison, from Halsted east to the -river, were lined with vile dens and tumbledown yellow and gray frame -houses, slovenly, rancorous, unsolved and possibly unsolvable misery and -degeneracy, whole streets of degraded, dejected, miserable souls. Why -didn’t society do better by them? I often asked of myself then. Why -didn’t they do better by themselves? Did God, who, as had been drummed -into me up to that hour was all wise, all merciful, omnipresent and -omnipotent make people so or did they themselves have something to do -with it? Was government to blame, or they themselves? Always the -miseries of the poor, the scandals, corruptions and physical -deteriorations which trail folly, weakness, uncontrolled passion -fascinated me. I was never tired of looking at them, but I had no -solution and was not willing to accept any, suspecting even then that -man is the victim of forces over which he has no control. As I walked -here and there through these truly terrible neighborhoods, I peered -through open doors and patched and broken windows at this wretchedness -and squalor, much as a man may tread the poisonous paths of a jungle, -curious and yet fearsome. - -It was this nosing and speculative tendency, however, which helped me -most, as I soon found. Journalism, even in Chicago, was still in that -discursive stage which loved long-winded yarns upon almost any topic. -Nearly all news stories were padded to make more of them than they -deserved, especially as to color and romance. All specials were being -written in imitation of the great novelists, particularly Charles -Dickens, who was the ideal of all newspaper men and editors as well as -magazine special writers (how often have I been told to imitate Charles -Dickens in thought and manner!). The city editors wanted not so much -bare facts as feature stories, color, romance; and, although I did not -see it clearly at the time, I was their man. - -Write? - -Why, I could write reams upon any topic when at last I discovered that I -could write at all. One day some one—Maxwell, I suppose—hearing me speak -of what I was seeing each day as I came to or went from the office to my -room, suggested that I do an article on Chicago’s vilest slum, which lay -between Halsted and the river, Madison and Twelfth streets, for the next -Sunday issue, and this was as good as meat and drink for me. I visited -this region a few times between one and four in the morning, wandering -about its clattering boardwalks, its dark alleys, its gloomy mire and -muck atmosphere. Chicago’s wretchedness was never utterly tame, -disconsolate or hang-dog, whatever else it might be; rather, it was -savage, bitter and at times larkish and impish. The vile slovens, -slatterns, prostitutes, drunkards and drug fiends who infested this -region all led a strident if beggarly or horrible life. Saloon lights -and smells and lamps gleaming smokily from behind broken lattices and -from below wooden sidewalk levels, gave it a shameless and dangerous -color. Accordions, harmonicas, jew’s-harps, clattering tin-pan pianos -and stringy violins were forever going; paintless rotting shacks always -resounded with a noisy blasphemous life between twelve and four; oaths, -foul phrases; a Hogarthian shamelessness and reconciliation to filth -everywhere—these were some of the things that characterized it. Although -there was a closing-hour law there was none here as long as it was -deemed worth while to keep open. Only at four and five in the morning -did a heavy peace seem to descend, and this seemed as wretched as the -heavier vice and degradation which preceded it. - -In the face of such a scene or picture as this my mind invariably paused -in question. I had been reared on dogmatic religious and moral theory, -or at least had been compelled to listen to it all my life. Here then -was a part of the work of an omnipotent God, who nevertheless tolerated, -apparently, a most industrious devil. Why did He do it? Why did nature, -when left to itself, devise such astounding slums and human muck heaps? -Harlots in doorways or behind windows or under lamp-posts in these -areas, smirking and signaling creatures with the dullest or most -fox-like expression and with heavily smeared lips and cheeks and -blackened eyebrows, were ready to give themselves for one dollar, or -even fifty cents, and this in the heart of this budding and prosperous -West, a land flowing with milk and honey! What had brought that about so -soon in a new, rich, healthy, forceful land—God? devil? or both working -together toward a common end? Near at hand were huge and rapidly -expanding industries. The street-cars and trains, morning and evening, -were crowded with earnest, careful, saving, seeking, moderately -well-dressed people who were presumably anxious to work and lay aside a -competence and own a home. Then why was it that these others lived in -such a hell? Was God to blame? Or society? - -I could not solve it. This matter of being, with its differences, is -permanently above the understanding of man, I fear. - -I smiled as I thought of my father’s attitude to all this. There he was -out on the west side demanding that all creatures of the world return to -Christ and the Catholic Church, see clearly, whether they could or not, -its grave import to their immortal souls; and here were these sows and -termagants, wretched, filthy, greasy. And the men low-browed, ill-clad, -rum-soaked, body-racked! Mere bags of bones, many of them, blue-nosed, -scarlet-splotched, diseased—if God should get them what would He do with -them? On the other hand, in the so-called better walks of life, there -were so many strutting, contentious, self-opinionated swine-masters -whose faces were maps of gross egoism and whose clothes were almost a -blare of sound. - -I think I said a little something of all this in the first newspaper -special I ever wrote. It seemed to open the eyes of my superiors. - -“You know, Theodore,” Maxwell observed to me as he read my copy the next -morning between one and three, “you have your faults, but you do know -how to observe. You bring a fresh mind to bear on this stuff; anyhow I -think maybe you’re cut out to be a writer after all, not just an -ordinary newspaper man.” He lapsed into silence, and then at periods as -he read he would exclaim: “Jesus Christ!” or “That’s a hell of a world!” -Then he would fall foul of some turgid English and with a kind of -malicious glee would cut and hack and restate and shake his head -despairingly, until I was convinced that I had written the truckiest rot -in the world. At the close, however, he arose, dusted his lap, lit a -pipe and said: “Well, I think you’re nutty, but I believe you’re a -writer just the same. They ought to let you do more Sunday specials.” -And then he talked to me about phases of the Chicago he knew, -contrasting it with a like section in San Francisco, where he had once -worked. - -“A hell of a fine novel is going to be written about some of these -things one of these days,” he remarked; and from now on he treated me -with such equality that I thought I must indeed be a very remarkable -man. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - - -THIS world of newspaper men who now received me on terms of social -equality, who saw life from a purely opportunistic, and yet in the main -sentimentally imaginative, viewpoint broadened me considerably and -finally liberated me from moralistic and religionistic qualms. So many -of them were hard, gallant adventurers without the slightest trace of -the nervousness and terror of fortune which agitated me. They had been -here, there, everywhere—San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, Calcutta, -London. They knew the ways of the newspaper world and to a limited -extent the workings of society at large. The conventional-minded would -have called them harsh, impracticable, impossible, largely because they -knew nothing of trade, that great American standard of ability and -force. Most of them, as I soon found, were like John Maxwell, free from -notions as to how people were to act and what they were to think. To a -certain extent they were confused by the general American passive -acceptance of the Sermon on the Mount and the Beatitudes as governing -principles, but in the main they were nearly all mistrustful of these -things, and of conventional principles in general. - -They did not believe, as I still did, that there was a fixed moral order -in the world which one contravened at his peril. Heaven only knows where -they had been or what they had seen, but they misdoubted the motives, -professed or secret, of nearly every man. No man, apparently, was -utterly and consistently honest, that is, no man in a powerful or -dominant position; and but few were kind or generous or truly -public-spirited. As I sat in the office between assignments, or -foregathered with them at dinner or at midnight in some one of the many -small restaurants frequented by newspaper men, I heard tales of all -sorts of scandals: robberies, murders, fornications, incendiarisms, not -only in low life but in our so-called high life. Most of these young men -looked upon life as a fierce, grim struggle in which no quarter was -either given or taken, and in which all men laid traps, lied, -squandered, erred through illusion: a conclusion with which I now most -heartily agree. The one thing I would now add is that the brigandage of -the world is in the main genial and that in our hour of success we are -all inclined to be more or less liberal and warm-hearted. - -But at this time I was still sniffing about the Sermon on the Mount and -the Beatitudes, expecting ordinary human flesh and blood to do and be -those things. Hence the point of view of these men seemed at times a -little horrific, at other times most tonic. - -“People make laws for other people to live up to,” Maxwell once said to -me, “and in order to protect themselves in what they have. They never -intend those laws to apply to themselves or to prevent them from doing -anything they wish to do.” - -There was a youth whose wife believed that he did not drink. On two -occasions within six weeks I was sent as envoy to inform his wife that -he had suddenly been taken ill with indigestion and would soon be home. -Then Maxwell and Brady would bundle him into a hack and send him off, -one or two of us going along to help him into his house. So solemnly was -all this done and so well did we play our parts that his wife believed -it for a while—long enough for him to pull himself together a year later -and give up drinking entirely. Another youth boasted that he was -syphilitic and was curing himself with mercury; another there was whose -joy it was to sleep in a house of prostitution every Saturday night, and -so on. I tell these things not because I rejoice in them but merely to -indicate the atmosphere into which I was thrown. Neither sobriety nor -virtue nor continence nor incontinence was either a compelling or -preventive cause of either success or failure or had anything to do with -true newspaper ability; rather men succeeded by virtue of something that -was not intimately related to any of these. If one could do anything -which the world really wanted it would not trouble itself so much about -one’s private life. - -Another change that was being brought about in me was that which related -to my personal opinion of myself, the feeling I was now swiftly -acquiring that after all I amounted to something, was somebody. A -special or two that I wrote, thanks largely to Maxwell’s careful -schooling, brought me to the forefront among those of the staff who were -writing for the Sunday supplement. A few news stories fell to my lot and -I handled them with a freedom which won me praise on all sides. Not that -I felt at the time that I was writing them so well or differently as -that I was most earnestly concerned to state what I saw or felt or -believed. I even essayed a few parables of my own, mild, poetic -commentaries on I scarcely recall what, which Maxwell scanned with a -scowling eye at first but later deigned to publish, affixing the -signature of Carl Dreiser because he had decided to nickname me “Carl.” -This grieved me, for I was dying to see my own name in print; but when -they appeared I had the audacity to call upon the family and show them, -boasting of my sudden rise in the world and saying that I had used the -name Carl as a compliment to a nephew. - -During this time I was taking a rather lofty hand with Alice because of -my great success, unmindful of the fact that I had been boasting for -months that I was connected with one of the best of the local papers and -telling her that I did not think it so wonderful. But now I began to -think that I was to be called to much higher realms, and solemnly asked -myself if I should ever want to marry. A number of things helped to -formulate this question in me. For one thing, I had no sooner been -launched into general assignments than one afternoon, in seeking for the -pictures of a group of girls who had taken part in some summer-night -festival, I encountered one who seemed to be interested in me, a little -blonde of about my own age, very sleek and dreamy. She responded to my -somewhat timid advances when I called on her and condescended to smile -as she gave me her photograph. I drew close to her and attempted a -flirtation, to which she was not averse, and on parting I asked if I -might call some afternoon or evening, hoping to crowd it in with my -work. She agreed, and for several Sundays and week-nights I was put to -my utmost resources to keep my engagements and do my work, for the -newspaper profession that I knew, tolerated neither week-days nor -Sundays off. I had to take an assignment and shirk it in part or -telephone that I was delayed and could not come at all. Thus early even -I began to adopt a cavalier attitude toward this very exacting work. -Twice I took her to a theater, once to an organ recital, and once for a -stroll in Jackson Park; by which time she seemed inclined to yield to my -blandishments to the extent of permitting me to put my arms about her -and even to kiss her, protesting always that I was wanton and forward -and that she did not know whether she cared for me so much or not. -Charming as she was, I did not feel that I should care for her very -much. She was beautiful but too lymphatic, too carefully reared. Her -mother, upon hearing of me, looked into the fact of whether I was truly -connected with the _Globe_ and then cautioned her daughter to be careful -about making new friends. I saw that I was not welcome at that house and -thereafter met her slyly. I might have triumphed in this case had I been -so minded and possessed of a little more courage, but as I feared that I -should have to undergo a long courtship with marriage at the end of it, -my ardor cooled. Because she was new to me and comfortably stationed and -better dressed than either Alice or N—— had ever been, I esteemed her -more highly, made invidious comparisons from a material point of view, -and wished that I could marry some such well-placed girl without -assuming all the stern obligations of matrimony. - -During the second month of my work on the _Globe_ there arrived on the -scene a man who was destined to have a very marked effect on my career. -He was a tall, dark, broad-shouldered, slender-legged individual of -about forty-five or fifty, with a shock of curly black hair and a burst -of smuggler-like whiskers. He was truly your Bret Harte gold-miner type, -sloven, red-eyed at times, but amazingly intelligent and genial, -reminding me not a little of my brother Rome in his best hours. He wore -a long dusty, brownish-black frockcoat and a pair of black trousers -specked, gummed, shined and worn by tobacco, food, liquor and rough -usage. His feet were incased in wide-toed shoes of the old -“boot-leather” variety, and the swirl of Jovian locks and beard was -surmounted by a wide-brimmed black hat such as Kentucky colonels were -wont to affect. His nose and cheeks were tinted a fiery red by much -drinking, the nose having a veinous, bulbous, mottled and strawberry -texture. - -This man was John T. McEnnis, a well-known middle-West newspaper man of -that day, a truly brilliant writer whose sole fault was that he drank -too much. Originally from St. Louis, the son of a well-known politician -there, he had taken up journalism as the most direct avenue to fame and -fortune. At forty-five he found himself a mere hanger-on in this -profession, tossed from job to job because of his weakness, his skill -equaled if not outrivaled by that of younger men! It was commonly said -that he could drink more and stand it better than any other man in -Chicago. - -“Why, he can’t begin to work unless he’s had three or four drinks to -limber him up,” Harry Dunlap once said to me. “He has to have six or -seven more to get through till evening.” He did not say how many were -required to carry him on until midnight, but I fancy he must have -consumed at least a half dozen more. He was in a constant state of -semi-intoxication, which was often skillfully concealed. - -During my second month on the _Globe_ McEnnis was made city editor in -place of Sullivan, who had gone to a better paper. Later he was made -managing editor. I learned from Maxwell that he was well known in -Chicago newspaper circles for his wit, his trenchant editorial pen, and -that once he had been considered the most brilliant newspaper editor in -St. Louis. He had a small, spare, intellectual wife, very homely and -very dowdy, who still adored him and had suffered God knows what to be -permitted to live with him. - -The first afternoon I saw him sitting in the city editorial chair I was -very much afraid of him and of my future. He looked raucous and uncouth, -and Maxwell had told me that new editors usually brought in new men. As -it turned out, however, much to my astonishment, he took an almost -immediate fancy to me which ripened into a kind of fatherly affection -and even, if you will permit me humbly to state a fact, a kind of -adoration. Indeed he swelled my head by the genial and hearty manner in -which almost at once he took me under his guidance and furthered my -career as rapidly as he could, the while he borrowed as much of my small -salary as he could. Please do not think that I begrudged this then or -that I do now. I owe him more than a dozen such salaries borrowed over a -period of years could ever repay. My one grief is, that I had so little -to give him in return for the very great deal he did for me. - -The incident from which this burst of friendship seemed to take its rise -was this. One day shortly after he arrived he gave me a small clipping -concerning a girl on the south side who had run away or had been -kidnaped from one of the dreariest homes it has ever been my lot to see. -The girl was a hardy Irish creature of about sixteen. A neighborhood -street boy had taken her to some wretched dive in South Clark Street and -seduced her. Her mother, an old, Irish Catholic woman whom I found -bending over a washtub when I called, was greatly exercised as to what -had become of her daughter, of whom she had heard nothing since her -disappearance. The police had been informed, and from clews picked up by -a detective I learned the facts first mentioned. The mother wept into -her wash as she told me of the death of her husband a few years before, -of a boy who had been injured in such a way that he could not work, and -now this girl, her last hope—— - -From a newspaper point of view there was nothing much to the story, but -I decided to follow it to the end. I found the house to which the boy -had taken the girl, but they had just left. I found the parents of the -youth, simple, plain working people, who knew nothing of his -whereabouts. Something about the wretched little homes of both families, -the tumbledown neighborhoods, the poverty and privation which would ill -become a pretty sensuous girl, impelled me to write it out as I saw and -felt it. I hurried back to the office that afternoon and scribbled out a -kind of slum romance, which in the course of the night seemed to take -the office by storm. Maxwell, who read it, scowled at first, then said -it was interesting, and then fine. - -“Carl,” he interpolated at one point as he read, “you’re letting your -youthful romantic mood get the best of you, I see. This will never do, -Carl. Read Schopenhauer, my boy, read Schopenhauer.” - -The city editor picked it up when he returned, intending, I presume, to -see if there was any sign of interest in the general introduction; -finding something in it to hold him, he read on carefully to the end, as -I could see, for I was not a dozen feet away and could see what he was -reading. When he finished he looked over at me and then called me to -come to him. - -“I want to say to you,” he said, “that you have just done a fine piece -of writing. I don’t go much on this kind of story, don’t believe in it -as a rule for a daily paper, but the way you have handled this is fine. -You’re young yet, and if you just keep yourself well in hand you have a -future.” - -Thereafter he became very friendly, asked me out one lunch-time to have -a drink, borrowed a dollar and told me of some of the charms and wonders -of journalistic work in St. Louis and elsewhere. He thought the _Globe_ -was too small a paper for me, that I ought to get on a larger one, -preferably in another city, and suggested how valuable would be a period -of work on the St. Louis _Globe-Democrat_, of which he had once been -city editor. - -“You haven’t any idea how much you need all this,” he said. “You’re -young and inexperienced, and a great paper like the _Globe-Democrat_ or -the New York _Sun_ starts a boy off right. I would like to see you go -first to St. Louis, and then to New York. Don’t settle down anywhere -yet, don’t drink, and don’t get married, whatever you do. A wife will be -a big handicap to you. You have a future, and I’m going to help you if I -can.” Then he borrowed another dollar and left me. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - - -TAKEN up by this man in this way and with Maxwell as my literary guide -and mentor still, I could not help but prosper to an extent at this -task, and I did. I cannot recall now all the things that I was called -upon to do, but one of the things that shortly after the arrival of -McEnnis was assigned to me and that eventually brought my Chicago -newspaper career to a close in a sort of blaze of glory as I saw it, at -least, was a series of articles or rather a campaign to close a group of -fake auction shops which were daily fleecing hundreds by selling bogus -watches, jewelry, diamonds and the like, yet which were licensed by the -city and from which the police were deriving a very handsome revenue. -Although so new at this work the task was placed in my hands as a -regular daily assignment by Mr. McEnnis with the comment that I must -make something out of it, whether or not I thought I could put a news -punch in it and close these places. That would be a real newspaper -victory and ought to do me some good with my chief the managing editor. -Campaigns of this kind are undertaken not in a spirit of righteousness -as a rule but because of public pressure or a wish to increase -circulation and popularity; yet in this case no such laudable or -excusable intent could be alleged. - -This paper was controlled by John B. MacDonald, an Irish politician, -gambler, racer of horses, and the owner of a string of local houses of -prostitution, saloons and gambling dens, all of which brought him a -large income and made him influential politically. Recently he had -fallen on comparatively difficult days. His reputation as a shady -character had become too widespread. The pharisees and influential men -generally who had formerly profited by his favor now found it expedient -to pass by on the other side. Public sentiment against him had been -aroused by political attacks on the part of one newspaper and another -that did not belong to his party. The last election having been lost to -him, the police and other departments of the city were now supposed to -work in harmony to root out his vile though profitable vice privileges. - -Everybody knows how these things work. Some administration attacks were -made upon his privileges, whereupon, not finding suitable support in the -papers of his own party in the city, they having axes of their own to -grind, he had started a paper of his own, the _Globe_. He had brought on -a capable newspaper man from New York, who was doing his best to make of -the paper something which would satisfy MacDonald’s desire for -circulation and influence while he lined his own pockets against a rainy -day. For this reason, no doubt, our general staff was underpaid, though -fairly capable. During my stay the police and other departments, under -the guidance of Republican politicians and newspapers, were making an -attack on Mr. MacDonald’s preserves; to which he replied by attacking -through the medium of the _Globe_ anything and everything he thought -would do his rivals harm. Among these were a large number of these same -mock auction shops in the downtown section. Evidently the police were -deriving a direct revenue from these places, for they let them severely -alone but since the administration was now anti-MacDonald and these were -not Mr. MacDonald’s property nothing was left undone by us to stop this -traffic. We charged, and it was true, that though victims daily appeared -before the police to complain that they had been swindled and to ask for -restitution, nothing was done by the police. - -I cannot now recall what it was about my treatment of these institutions -that aroused so much interest in the office and made me into a kind of -_Globe_ hero. I was innocent of all knowledge of the above complications -which I have just described when I started, and almost as innocent when -I concluded. Nevertheless now daily at ten in the morning and again in -the afternoon I went to one or another of these shops, listened to the -harangue of the noisy barkers, saw tin-gilt jewelry knocked down to -unsuspecting yokels from the South and West who stood open-mouthed -watching the hypnotizing movements of the auctioneer’s hands as he waved -a glistering gem or watch in front of them and expatiated on the -beauties and perfections of the article he was compelled to part from -for a song. These places were not only deceptions and frauds in what -they pretended to sell but also gathering-places for thieves, -pick-pockets, footpads who, finding some deluded bystander to be -possessed of a watch, pin or roll of money other than that from which he -was parted by the auctioneer or his associates, either then and there by -some legerdemain robbed him or followed him into a dark street and -knocked him down and did the same. At this time Chicago was notorious -for this sort of thing, and it was openly charged in the _Globe_ and -elsewhere that the police connived at and thrived by the transactions. - -My descriptions of what was going on, innocent and matter of fact as -they were at first and devoid of guile or make-believe, so pleased Mr. -McEnnis beyond anything I had previously done that he was actually -fulsome and yet at the same time mandatory and restraining in his -compliments. I have no desire to praise myself at this time. Such things -and so much that seemed so important then have since become trivial -beyond words but it is only fair to state that he was seemingly -immensely pleased and amused as was Maxwell. - -“Upon my word,” I once heard him exclaim, as he read one of my daily -effusions. “The rascals. Who would think that such scamps would be -allowed to run at large in a city like this! They certainly ought to be -in jail. Every one of them. And the police along with them.” Then he -chuckled, slapped his knee and finally came over and made some inquiries -in regard to a certain dealer whom I had chanced to picture. I was -cautioned against overstating anything; also against detection and being -beaten up by those whom I was offending. For I noticed after the first -day or two that the barkers of some of the shops occasionally studied me -curiously or ceased their more shameful effronteries in my presence and -produced something of more value. The facts which my articles presented, -however, finally began to attract a little attention to the paper. -Either because the paper sold better or because this was an excellent -club wherewith to belabor his enemies, the publisher now decided to call -the attention of the public via the billboards, to what was going on in -our columns, and McEnnis himself undertook to frighten the police into -action by swearing out warrants against the different owners of the -shops and thus compelling them to take action. - -I became the center of a semi-literary, semi-public reform hubbub. The -principal members of the staff assured me that the articles were -forceful in fact and color and highly amusing. One day, by way of the -license bureau and with the aid of McEnnis, I secured the names of the -alleged owners and managers of nearly all of these shops and thereafter -attacked them by name, describing them just as they were, where they -lived, how they made their money, etc. In company with a private -detective and several times with McEnnis, I personally served warrants -of arrest, accompanied the sharpers to police headquarters, where they -were immediately released on bail, and then ran to the office to write -out my impressions of all I had seen, repeating conversations as nearly -as I could remember, describing uncouth faces and bodies of crooks, -policemen and detectives, and by sly innuendo indicating what a farce -and sham was the whole seeming interest of the police. - -One day McEnnis and I called on the chief of police, demanding to know -why he was so indifferent to our crusade and the facts we put before -him. To my youthful amazement and enlightenment he shook his fist in our -faces and exclaimed: “You can go to the devil, and so can the _Globe_! I -know who’s back of this campaign, and why. Well, go on and play your -little game! Shout all you want to. Who’s going to listen to you? You -haven’t any circulation. You’re not going to make a mark of me, and -you’re not going to get me fired out of here for not performing my duty. -Your paper is only a dirty political rag without any influence.” - -“Is it!” taunted McEnnis. “Well, you just wait and see. I think you’ll -change your mind as to that,” and we stalked solemnly out. - -And in the course of time he did change his mind. Some of the fakers had -to be arrested and fined and their places closed up, and the longer we -talked and exposed the worse it became for them. Finally a dealer -approached me one morning and offered me an eighteen-carat gold watch, -to be selected by me from any jewelry store in the city and paid for by -him, if I would let his store alone. I refused. Another, a dark, dusty, -most amusing little Jew, offered me a diamond pin, insisting upon -sticking it in my cravat, and said: “Go see! Go see! Ask any jeweler -what he thinks, if that ain’t a real stone! If it ain’t—if he says -no—bring it back to me and I’ll give you a hundred dollars in cash for -it. Don’t you mention me no more now. Be a nice young feller now. I’m a -hard-workin’ man just like anybody else. I run a honest place.” - -I carried the pin back to the office and gave it to McEnnis. He stared -at me in amazement. - -“Why did you do this?” he exclaimed. “You shouldn’t have taken this, at -all. It may get the paper in trouble. They may have had witnesses to -this—but maybe not. Perhaps this fellow is just trying to protect -himself. Anyway, we’re going to take this thing back to him and don’t -take anything more, do you hear, money or anything. You can’t do that -sort of thing. If I didn’t think you were honest I’d fire you right -now.” - -He took me into the office of the editor-in-chief, who looked at me with -still, gray-blue eyes and listened to my story. He dismissed me and -talked with McEnnis for a while. When the latter came out he exclaimed -triumphantly: “He sees that you’re honest, all right, and he’s tickled -to death. Now we’ll take this pin back, and then you’ll write out the -whole story just as it happened.” - -On the way we went to a magistrate to swear out a charge of attempted -bribery against this man, and later in the same day I went with the -detective to serve the warrant. To myself I seemed to be swimming in a -delicious sea of life. “What a fine thing life is!” I thought. “Here I -am getting along famously because I can write. Soon I will get more -money, and maybe some day people will begin to hear of me. I will get a -fine reputation in the newspaper world.” - -Thanks to this vigorous campaign, of which McEnnis was the inspiration -and guiding spirit, all these auction shops were eventually closed. In -so much at least John B. MacDonald had achieved a revenge. - -As for myself, I felt that there must be some serious and favorable -change impending for me; and true enough, within a fortnight after this -the change came. I had noticed that McEnnis had become more and more -friendly. He introduced me to his wife one day when she was in the -office and told her in my presence what splendid work I was doing. Often -he would take me to lunch or to a saloon for drinks (for which I would -pay), and would then borrow a dollar or two or three, no part of which -he ever returned. He lectured me on the subject of study, urging me to -give myself a general education by reading, attending lectures and the -like. He wanted me to look into painting, music, sculpture. As he talked -the blood would swirl in my head, and I kept thinking what a brilliant -career must be awaiting me. One thing he did was to secure me a place on -the St. Louis _Globe-Democrat_. - -Just at this time a man whose name I have forgotten—Leland, I think—the -Washington correspondent of the St. Louis _Globe-Democrat_, came to -Chicago to report the preliminary preparations for the great World’s -Fair which was to open the following spring. Already the construction of -a number of great buildings in Jackson Park had been begun, and the -newspapers throughout the country were on the alert as to its progress. -Leland, as I may as well call him, a cool, capable observer and writer, -was an old friend of McEnnis. McEnnis introduced me to him and made an -impassioned plea in my behalf for an opportunity for me to do some -writing for the _Globe-Democrat_ in St. Louis under his direction. The -idea was to get this man to allow me to do some World’s Fair work for -him, on the side, in addition to my work on the _Globe_, and then later -to persuade Joseph B. McCullagh of the former paper to make a place for -me in St. Louis. - -“As you see,” he said when he introduced me, “he’s a mere boy without -any experience, but he has the makings of a first-rate newspaper man. -I’m sure of it. Now, Henry, as a favor to me, I want you to help him. -You’re close to Mac” (Joseph B. McCullagh, editor-in-chief of the St. -Louis _Globe-Democrat_), “and he’s just the man this boy ought to go to -to get his training. Dreiser has just completed a fine piece of -journalistic work for me. He’s closed up the fake auction shops here, -and I want to reward him. He only gets fifteen a week here, and I can’t -do anything for him in Chicago just now. You write and ask Mac to take -him on down there, and I’ll write also and tell him how I feel about -it.” - -The upshot of this was that I was immediately taken into the favor of -Mr. Leland, given some easy gossip writing to do, which netted me -sixteen dollars the week for three weeks in addition to the fifteen I -earned on the _Globe_. At the end of that time, some correspondence -having ensued between the editor of the _Globe-Democrat_ and his two -Chicago admirers, I one day received a telegram which read: - - “You may have reportorial position on this paper at twenty - dollars a week, beginning next Monday. Wire reply.” - -I stood in the dusty little _Globe_ office and stared at this, wondering -what so great an opportunity portended. Only six months before I had -been jobless and hanging about this back door; here I was tonight with -as much as fifty dollars in my pocket, a suit of good clothes on my -back, good shoes, a good hat and overcoat. I had learned how to write -and was already classed here as a star reporter. I felt as though life -were going to do wonderful and beautiful things for me. I thought of -Alice, that now I should have to leave her and this familiar and now -comfortable Chicago atmosphere, and then I went over to McEnnis to ask -him what I ought to do. - -When he read the telegram he said: “This is the best chance that could -possibly come to you. You will be working on one of the greatest papers -and under one of the greatest editors that ever lived. Make the most of -your chance. Go? Of course go! Let’s see—it’s Tuesday; our regular week -ends Friday. You hand in your resignation now, to take effect then, and -go Sunday. I’ll give you some letters that will help you,” and he at -once turned to his desk and wrote out a series of instructions and -recommendations. - -That night, and for four days after, until I took the train for St. -Louis, I walked on air. I was going away. I was going out in the world -to make my fortune. Withal I was touched by the pathos of the fact that -life and youth and everything which now glimmered about me so hopefully -was, for me as well as for every other living individual, insensibly -slipping away. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XV - - -THIS sudden decision to terminate my newspaper life in Chicago involved -the problem of what to do about Alice. During these spring and summer -days I had been amusing myself with her, imagining sometimes, because of -her pretty face and figure and her soft clinging ways, that I was in -love with her. By the lakes and pagodas of Chicago’s parks, on the lake -shore at Lincoln Park where the white sails were to be seen, in Alice’s -cozy little room with the windows open and the lights out, or of a -Sunday morning when her parents were away visiting and she was preparing -my breakfast and flouring her nose and chin in the attempt—how happy we -were! How we frivoled and kissed and made promises to ourselves -concerning the future! We were like two children at times, and for a -while I half decided that I would marry her. In a little while we were -going everywhere together and she was planning her wedding trousseau, -the little fineries she would have when we were married. We were to live -on the south side near the lake in a tiny apartment. She described to me -the costume she would wear, which was to be of satin of an ivory shade, -with laces, veils, slippers and stockings to match. - -But as spring wore on and I grew so restless I began to think not so -much less of Alice as more of myself. I never saw her as anything but -beautiful, tender, a delicate, almost perfect creature for some one to -love and cherish. Once we went hand-in-hand over the lawns of Jackson -Park of a Sunday afternoon. She was enticing in a new white flannel -dress and dark blue hat. The day was warm and clear and a convoy of -swans was sailing grandly about the little lake. We sat down and watched -them and the ducks, the rowers in green, blue and white boats, with the -white pagoda in the center of the lake reflected in the water. All was -colorful, gay. - -“Oh, Dorse,” she said at one place, with a little gasping sigh which -moved me by its pathos, “isn’t it lovely?” - -“Beautiful.” - -“We are so happy when we are together, aren’t we?” - -“Yes.” - -“Oh, I wish we were married! If we just had a little place of our own! -You could come home to me, and I could make you such nice things.” - -I promised her happy days to come, but even as I said it I knew it would -not be. I did not think I could build a life on my salary ... I did not -know that I wanted to. Life was too wide and full. She seemed to sense -something of this from the very beginning, and clung close to me now as -we walked, looking up into my eyes, smiling almost sadly. As the hours -slipped away into dusk and the hush of evening suggested change and the -end of many things she sighed again. - -“Oh, Dorse,” she said as we reached her doorstep, “if we could just be -together always and never part!” - -“We will be,” I said, but I did not believe my own words. - -It was on this spring night that she attempted to persuade me, not by -words or any great craft but merely by a yielding pressure, to take her -and make her fully mine. I fancy she thought that if she yielded to me -physically and found herself with child my sympathy would cause me to -marry her. We in her own home threw some pillows on the floor, and there -in my arms she kissed and hugged me, begging me to love her; but I had -not the wish. I did not think that I ought to do that thing, then. - -It was after this that the upward turn of my fortunes began. I was -involved in the mock auction war for over three weeks and for two weeks -following that with my buzzing dreams of leaving Chicago. In this rush -of work, and in paying some attentions to Miss Winstead, I neglected -Alice shamefully, once for ten days, not calling at her house or store -or writing her a note. One Sunday morning, troubled about me and no -doubt heartsick, she attended the ethical culture lecture in the Grand -Theater, where I often went. On coming out she met me and I greeted her -affectionately, but she only looked at me with sad and reproachful eyes -and said: “Oh, Dorse, you don’t really care any more, do you? You’re -just a little sorry when you see me. Well, you needn’t come any more. -I’m going back to Harry. I’m only too glad that I can.” - -She admitted that, misdoubting me, she had never dropped him entirely -but had kept him calling occasionally. This angered me and I said to -myself: “What is she that I should worry over her?” Imagine. And this -double-dealing, essential as it was then, cut me to the quick, although -I had been doing as much and more. When I thought it out I knew that she -was entitled to protect herself against so uncertain a love as mine. -Even then I could have taken her—she practically asked me to—but I -offered reasons and excuses for delay. I went away both angry and sad, -and the following Sunday, having received the telegram from St. Louis, I -left without notifying her. Indeed I trifled about on this score -debating with myself until Saturday night, when McEnnis asked me to go -to dinner with him; afterwards when I hurried to her home she was not -there. This angered me groundlessly, even though I knew she never -expected me any more of a Saturday night. I returned to my room, -disconsolate and gloomy, packed my belongings and then decided that I -would go back after midnight and knock at her door. Remembering that my -train left at seven-thirty next morning and having no doubt that she was -off with my rival, I decided to punish her. After all, I could come back -if I wished, or she could come to me. I wrote her a note, then went to -bed and slept fitfully until six-thirty, when I arose and hurried to -make my train. In a little while I was off, speeding through those wide -flat yards which lay adjacent to her home, and with my nose pressed -against the window, a driving rain outside, I could see the very windows -and steps by which we had so often sat. My heart sank and I ached. I -decided at once to write her upon my arrival in St. Louis and beg her to -come—not to become my wife perhaps but my mistress. I brooded gloomily -all day as I sped southward, picturing myself as a lorn youth without -money, home, family, love, anything. I tried to be sad, thinking at the -same time what wonderful things might not be going to befall me. But I -was leaving Alice! I was leaving Chicago, my home, all that was familiar -and dear! I felt as though I could not stand it, as though when I -reached St. Louis I should take the next train and return. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - - -THE time was November, 1892. St. Louis, as I stepped off the train that -Sunday evening, after leaving Chicago in cold dreary state, seemed a -warmer clime. The air was soft, almost balmy; but St. Louis could be -cold enough too, as I soon discovered. The station, then at Twelfth and -Poplar (the new Union Station at Eighteenth and Market was then -building), an antiquated affair of brick and stone, with the tracks -stretching in rows in front of it and reached by board walks laid at -right angles to them, seemed unspeakably shabby and inconvenient to me -after the better ones of Chicago. St. Louis, I said to myself, was not -as good as Chicago. Chicago was rough, powerful, active; St. Louis was -sleepy and slow. This was due, however, to the fact that I entered it of -a Sunday evening and all its central portion was still. Contrasted with -Chicago it was not a metropolis at all. While rich and successful it was -a creature of another mood and of slower growth. I learned in time to -like it very much, but for the things that set it apart from other -cities, not for the things by which it sought to rival them. - -But on that evening how dull and commonplace it seemed—how slow after -the wave-like pulsation of energy that appeared to shake the very air of -Chicago. - -I made my way to a hotel called The Silver Moon, recommended to me by my -mentor and sponsor, where one could get a room for a dollar, a meal for -twenty-five cents. Outside of Joseph B. McCullagh, editor of the -_Globe-Democrat_, and Edmond O’Neill, former editor of the _Republic_ to -whom I bore a letter, there was no one to whom I might commend myself. I -did not care. I was in a strange city at last! I was out in the world -now really, away from my family. My great interest was in life as a -spectacle, this singing, rhythmic, mystic state in which I found myself. -Life, the great sea! Life, the wondrous, colorful riddle! - -After eating a bite in the almost darkened restaurant of this hotel I at -once went out into Pine Street and stared at the street-cars, yellow, -red, orange, green, brown, labeled Choteau Avenue, Tower Grove, -Jefferson Avenue, Carondelet. My first business was to find the -_Globe-Democrat_ building, a prosperous eight-story brownstone and brick -affair standing at Sixth and Pine. I stared at this building in the -night, looking through the great plate glass windows at an onyx-lined -office, and finally went in and bought a Sunday paper. - -I went to my room and studied this paper—then slept, thinking of my -coming introduction in the morning. I was awakened by the clangor of -countless cars. Going to the stationary washstand I was struck at once -by the yellowness of the water, a dark yellowish-brown, which deposited -a yellow sediment in the glass. Was that the best St. Louis could -afford? I asked myself in youthful derision. I drank it just the same, -went down to breakfast and then out into the city to see what I should -see. I bought a _Globe-Democrat_ (a Republican party paper, by the way: -an anachronism of age and change of ownership) and a _Republic_, the one -morning Democratic paper, and then walked to Sixth and Pine to have -another look at the building in which I was to work. I wandered along -Broadway and Fourth Street, the street of the old courthouse; sought out -the Mississippi River and stared at it, that vast river lying between -banks of yellow mud; then I went back to the office of the -_Globe-Democrat_, for it was nearing the time when its editor-in-chief -might choose to put in an appearance. - -Joseph B. McCullagh (“Little Mac” of Eugene Field’s verse) was a short, -thick, aggressive, rather pugnacious and defensive person of Irish -extraction. He was short, sturdy, Napoleonic, ursine rather than -leonine. I was instantly drawn and thrown back by his stiff reserve. A -negro elevator boy had waved me along a marble hall on the seventh floor -to a room at the end, where I was met by an office boy who took in my -name and then ushered me into the great man’s presence. I found him at a -roll-top desk in a minute office, and he was almost buried in discarded -newspapers. I learned afterward that he would never allow these to be -removed until he was all but crowded out. I was racked with nervousness. -Whatever high estimate I had conceived of myself had oozed out by the -time I reached his door. I was now surveyed by keen gray Irish eyes from -under bushy brows. - -“Um, yuss! Um, yuss!” was all he deigned to say. “See Mr. Mitchell in -the city room, Mr. Mitchell—um, yuss. Your salary will be—um—um—twenty -dollars to begin with” (he was chewing a cigar and mumbled his words), -and he turned to his papers. - -Not a word, not a sign, that he knew I had ever written a line worth -while. I returned to the handsome city room, and found only empty desks. -I sat down and waited fully three-quarters of an hour, examining old -papers and staring out of the windows over the roofs until Mr. Mitchell -appeared. - -Like his employer, he was thick-set, a bigger man physically but less -attractive. He had a round, closely-cropped head and a severe and -scowling expression. He reminded me of Squeers in _Nicholas Nickleby_. A -savage fat man—can anything be worse? He went to his desk with a quick -stride when he entered, never noticing me. When I approached and -explained who I was and why I was there he scarcely gave me a glance. - -“The afternoon assignments won’t be ready till twelve-thirty,” he -commented drily. “Better take a seat in the next room.” - -It was then only eleven-thirty, and I went into the next room and -waited. It was empty but deliciously warm on this chilly day. How -different from McEnnis, I thought. Evidently being called to a newspaper -by telegram was not to be interpreted as auguring that one was to lie on -a bed of roses. - -A little bit afraid to leave for this hour, in case he might call, I -hung about the two windows of this room staring at the new city. How -wonderful it seemed, now this morning, after the quiet of the night -before, how strong and forceful in this November air. The streets and -sky were full of smoke; there was a clangor of street-car gongs below -and the rumble of endless trucks. A block or two away loomed up a tall -building of the newer order, twelve stories at least. Most of the -buildings were small, old family dwellings turned into stores. I -wondered about the life of the city, its charms, its prospects. What did -it hold for me? How long would I remain here? Would this paper afford me -any real advancement? Could I make a great impression and rise? - -As I was thus meditating several newspaper men came in. One was a short -bustling fellow with a golden-brown mustache and a shock of curly brown -hair, whose name I subsequently learned was Hazard—a fitting name for a -newspaper reporter. He wore a fedora hat, a short cream-colored overcoat -which had many wrinkles about the skirts in the back, and striped -trousers. He came in with a brisk air, slightly skipping his feet as he -walked, and took a desk, which was nothing more than a segment of one -long desk fastened to the wall and divided by varnished partitions of -light oak. As soon as he was seated he opened a drawer and took out a -pipe, which he briskly filled and lighted, and then began to examine -some papers he had in his pockets. I liked his looks. - -There sauntered in next a pale creature in a steel-gray suit of not too -new a look, who took a seat directly opposite the first comer. His left -hand, in a brown glove, hung at his side; apparently it was of wood or -stuffed leather. Later there arrived a negro of very intellectual -bearing, who took a seat next the second arrival; then a stout, -phlegmatic-looking man with dark eyes, dark hair and skin, which gave me -a feeling of something saturnine in his disposition. The next arrival -was a small skippity man, bustling about like a little mouse, and having -somewhat of a mousy look in his eyes, who seemed to be attached to the -main city editorial room in some capacity. - -A curious company gradually filed in, fourteen or fifteen all told. I -gave up trying to catalogue them and turned to look out the window. The -little bustling creature came through the room several times, looked at -me without deigning to speak however, and finally put his head in at the -door and whispered to the attendant group: “The book’s ready.” At this -there was an immediate stir, nearly all of the men got up and one by one -they filed into the next room. Assuming that they were going to consult -the assignment book, I followed, but my name was not down. In Chicago my -city editor usually called each individual to him in person; here each -man was supposed to discover his assignment from a written page. I -returned to the reporters’ room when I found my name was not down, -wondering what I should be used for. - -The others were not long gone before I was sought by the mouse—Hugh -Keller Hartung by name—who whispered: “The city editor wants to see -you”; and then for the second time I faced this gloomy man, whom I had -already begun not only to dislike but to fear. He was dark and savage, -in his mood to me at least, whether unconsciously so or not I do not -know. His broad face, set with a straight full nose and a wide -thin-lipped mouth, gave him a frozen Cromwellian outline. He seemed a -queer, unliterary type to be attached to so remarkable a journalist as -McCullagh. - -“There’s been some trouble down at this number,” he said, handing me a -slip of paper on which an address was written. “A fight, I think. See if -you can find out anything about it.” - -I hurried out, immensely relieved to get into the fresh air of the city. -I finally made my way to the place, only to find a vacant lot. Thinking -there might be some mistake, I went to the nearest police station and -inquired. Nothing was known. Fearing to fall down on my first -assignment, I returned to the lot, but could learn nothing. Gradually it -began to dawn upon me that this might be merely a trial assignment, a -bright idea of the frowning fat man, a bearings-finder. I had already -conceived a vast contempt for him, a stumbling-block in my path, I -thought. No wonder he came to hate me, as I learned afterward he did. - -I wandered back through the city, looking at the strange little low -houses (it was the region between the river and North Broadway, about a -mile above the courthouse), and marveling at the darksome character of -the stores. Never in my life had I seen such old buildings, all brick -and all crowded together, with solid wood or iron shutters, modeled -after those of France from whence its original settlers came and having -something of the dourness of the poorer quarters of Paris about them, -and windows composed of very small panes of glass, evidences of the -influence of France, I am sure. Their interiors seemed so dark, so -redolent of an old-time life. The streets also appeared old-fashioned -with their cobblestones, their twists and turns and the very little -space that lay between the curbs. I felt as though the people must be -different from those in Chicago, less dynamic, less aggressive. - -When I reached the office I found that the city editor, Mr. Mitchell, -had gone. The little mousy individual was at one of the parti-divisions -of the wall desk, near Mr. Mitchell’s big one, diving into a mass of -copy the while he scratched his ear or trifled with his pencil or jumped -mousily about in his seat. - -“Is Mr. Mitchell about?” I inquired. - -“No,” replied the other briskly; “he never gets in much before four -o’clock. Anything you want to know? I’m his assistant.” - -He did not dare say “assistant city editor”; his superior would not have -tolerated one. - -“He sent me out to this place, but it’s only a vacant lot.” - -“Did you look all around the neighborhood? Sometimes you can get news of -these things in the neighborhood, you know, when you can’t get it right -at the spot. I often do that.” - -“Yes,” I answered. “I inquired all about there.” - -“It would be just like Tobe to send you out there, though,” he went on -feverishly and timidly, “just to break you in. He does things like that. -You’re the new man from Chicago, aren’t you—Dreiser?” - -“Yes, but how did you know?” - -“He said you were coming,” he replied, jerking his left thumb over his -shoulder. “My name’s Hartung, Hugh Keller Hartung.” - -He was so respectful, almost fearsome in his references to his superior -that I could not help smiling. Now that I had my bearings, I did not -feel so keenly about Mr. Mitchell. He seemed dull. - -“I suppose you’ll find St. Louis a little slower than Chicago,” he went -on, “but we have some of the biggest newspaper stories here you ever -saw. You remember the Preller Trunk Mystery, don’t you, and that big -Missouri-Pacific train robbery last year?” - -I recalled both distinctly. “Is that so?” I commented, thinking of my -career in Chicago and hoping for a duplication of it here. - -Heavy steps were heard in the hall just outside, and Mr. Hartung jumped -to his work like a frightened mouse; on the instant his head was fairly -pulled down between his shoulders and his nose pressed over his work. He -seemed to shrivel and shrink, and I wondered why. I went into the next -room just as Mr. Tobias Mitchell entered. When I explained that the -address he had given me was a vacant lot he merely looked up at me -quizzically, suspiciously. - -“Couldn’t find it, eh? Somebody must have given me the wrong tip. Wait -in the next room. I’ll call you when I want you.” - -I returned to that empty room, from which I could hear the industrious -pencil of Mr. Hartung and the occasional throat-clearing cough of Mr. -Mitchell brooding among his papers. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - - -THIS reporters’ room, for all its handsome furnishings, never took on an -agreeable atmosphere to me; it was too gloomy—and solely because of the -personality next door. The room was empty when I entered, but in a short -while an old drunken railroad reporter with a red nose came in and sat -down in a corner seat, taking no notice of me. I read the morning paper -and waited. The room gradually filled up, and all went at once to their -desks and began to write industriously. I felt very much out of tune; a -reporter’s duty at this hour of the night was to write. - -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 apparently -futile for he took out his pipe, rapped it sonorously 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 -bantering 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 jovial Hazard. “You -can stand it. Now I’m not so well fixed 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?” queried 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 toiling away over the -night’s grist of news. - -I still sat there, looking curiously on. - -“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 standing 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 dubiously 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 browbeaten, 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 defalcation 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 graft 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 hush 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 scribbling 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, dangling their legs from -spring-back chairs, smoking pipes and whispering. As the clock -registered eleven-thirty the round body of Mitchell appeared in the -doorway, his fair-tinted visage darkened by a faint scowl. - -“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 depressed 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 sedate, 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 destined for a great end. For the present I must be -content to look around for a modest room where I could sleep and bide my -time and opportunity. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - -I FOUND a room the next morning in Pine Street, only a few doors from -this hotel and a block from my new office. It was a hall bedroom, one of -a long series which I was to occupy, dirty and grimy. I recall it still -with a sickening sense of its ugliness; and yet its cheapness and -griminess did not then trouble me so much. Did I not have the -inestimable boon of youth and ambition, which make most material details -unimportant? Some drab of a woman rented it to me, and outside were -those red, yellow, blue, green and orange street-cars clanging and -roaring and wheezing by all night long. Inside were four narrow gray -walls, a small wooden bed, none too clean sheets and pillow-cases, a -yellow washstand. I brought over my bag, arranged the few things I -thought need not be kept under lock and key, and returned to the -streets. I need not bother about the office until twelve-thirty, when -the assignments were handed out—or “the book,” as Hartung reverently -called it, was laid out for our inspection. - -And now, spread before me for my survey and entertainment was the great -city of St. Louis, and life itself as it was manifesting itself to me -through this city. This was the most important and interesting thing to -me, not my new position. Work? Well, that was important enough, -considering the difficulty I had had in securing it. What was more, I -was always driven by the haunting fear of losing this or any other -position I had ever had, of not being able to find another (a left-over -fear, perhaps, due to the impression that poverty had made on me in my -extreme youth). Just the same, the city came first in my imagination and -desires, and I now began to examine it with care, its principal streets, -shops, hotels, its residence district. What a pleasure to walk about, to -stare, to dream of better days and great things to come. - -Just at this time St. Louis seemed to be upon the verge of change and -improvement. An old section of mansions bordering on the business center -was rapidly giving way to a rabble of small stores and cheap factories. -Already several new buildings of the Chicago style of skyscraper were -either contemplated or in process of construction. There was a new club, -the Mercantile, the largest in the city, composed entirely of merchants -in the downtown section, which had just been opened and about which the -papers were making a great stir. There was a new depot contracted for, -one of the finest in all the country, so I was told, which was to house -all the roads entering the city. A new city hall was being talked of, an -enormous thing-to-be. Out in the west end, where progress seemed the -most vital, were new streets and truly magnificent residence “places,” -parked and guarded areas these, in which were ranged many residences of -the ultra-rich. The first time I saw one of these _places_ I was -staggered by its exclusive air and the beauty and even grandeur of some -of the great houses in it—newly manufactured exclusiveness. Here were -great gray or white or brownstone affairs, bright, almost gaudy, with -great verandas, astonishing doorways, flights of stone steps, heavily -and richly draped windows, immense carriage-houses, parked and flowered -lawns. - -By degrees I came to know the trade and poor sections of the city. Here -were long throbbing wholesale streets, crowded with successful -companies; along the waterfront was a mill area backed up by wretched -tenements, as poor and grimy and dingy as any I have ever seen; -elsewhere were long streets of middle-class families, all alike, all -with white stone doorsteps or windowsills and tiny front yards. - -The atmosphere of the _Globe-Democrat_ after a time came to have a -peculiar appeal for me because it was dominated so completely by the -robust personality of McCullagh. He was so natural, unaffected, rugged. -As time passed he steadily grew in my estimation and by degrees, as I -read his paper, his powerful, brilliant editorials, and saw how -systematically and forcefully he managed all things in connection with -himself and his men, the very air of St. Louis became redolent of him. -He was a real force, a great man. So famous was he already that men came -to St. Louis from the Southwest and elsewhere just to see him and his -office. I often think of him in that small office, sitting waist-deep -among his papers, his heavy head sunk on his pouter-like chest, his feet -incased in white socks and low slipper-like shoes, his whole air one of -complete mental and physical absorption in his work. A few years later -he committed suicide, out of sheer weariness, I assume, tired of an -inane world. Yet it was not until long after, when I was much better -able to judge him and his achievements, that I understood what a really -big thing he had done: built up a journal of national and even -international significance in a region which, one would have supposed, -could never have supported anything more than a mediocre panderer to -trade interests. As Hazard had proudly informed me, the annual bill for -telegraph news alone was $400,000: a sum which, in the light of -subsequent journalistic achievements in America, may seem insignificant -but which at that time meant a great deal. He seemed to have a desire to -make the paper not only good (as that word is used in connection with -newspapers) but great, and from my own memory and impression I can -testify that it was both. It had catholicity and solidity in editorials -and news. The whole of Europe, as well as America, was combed and -reflected in order that his readers might be entertained and retained, -and each day one could read news of curious as well as of scientific -interest from all over the world. Its editorials were in the main wise -and jovial, often beautifully written by McCullagh himself. Of assumed -Republican tendencies, it was much more a party leader than follower, -both in national and in State affairs. The rawest of raw youths, I -barely sensed this at the time, and yet I felt something of the wonder -and beauty of it all. I knew him to be a great man because I could feel -it. There was something of dignity and force about all that was -connected with him. Later it became a fact of some importance to me that -I had been called to a paper of so much true worth, by a man so wise, so -truly able. - -The only inharmonious note at this time was my intense loneliness. In -Chicago, in spite of the gradual breaking up of our home and the -disintegration of the family, I had managed to build up that spiritual -or imaginative support which comes to all of us from familiarity with -material objects. I had known Chicago, its newspaper world, its various -sections, its places of amusement, some dozen or two of newspaper men. -Here I knew no one at all. - -And back in Chicago there had been Alice and N—— and K——, whereas here -whom had I? Alice was a living pain for years, for in my erratic way I -was really fond of her. I am of that peculiar disposition, which will -not let memories of old ties and old pleasures die easily. I suffer for -things which might not give another a single ache or pain. Alice came -very close to me, and now she was gone. Without any reasonable -complaint, save that I was slightly weary, did not care for her as much -as I had, and that my mind was full of the world outside and my future, -I had left her. It had not been more than four weeks since I had visited -her in her little _parlor_ in Chicago, sipping of those delights which -only youth and ecstatic imagination can conjure; now I was three hundred -miles away from her kisses and the warmth of her hands. At the same time -there was this devil or angel of ambition which quite in spite of myself -was sweeping me onward. I fancied some vast Napoleonic ending for -myself, which of course was moonshine. I could not have gone back to -Chicago then if I had wished; it was not spiritually possible. Something -within kept saying “On—on!” Besides, it would have done no good. The -reaction would have been more irritating than the pain it satisfied. As -it was, I could only walk about the city in this chilling November -weather and speculate about myself and Alice and N—— and K—— and my own -future. What an odd beginning, I often thought to myself. Scandalous, -perhaps, in one so young: three girls in as many years, two of them -deeply and seriously wounded by me. - -“I shall write to her,” I thought. “I will ask her to come down here. I -can’t stand this. She is too lovely and precious to me. It is cruel to -leave her so.” - -There is this to be said for me in regard to my not writing to her: I -was uncertain as to the financial practicability of it. In Chicago I had -been telling her of my excellent position, boasting that I was making -more than I really was. So long as I was there and not married the -pretense could easily be sustained. Here, three hundred miles away, -where she would and could not come unless I was prepared to support her, -it was a different matter. To ask her now meant a financial burden which -I did not feel able, or at least willing, to assume. No doubt I could -have starved her on twenty dollars a week; had I been desperately swayed -by love I would have done so. I could even have had her, had I so -chosen, on conditions which did not involve marriage; but I could not -bring myself to do this. I did not think it quite fair. I felt that she -would have a just claim to my continuing the relation with her.... And -outside was the wide world. I told myself that I would marry her if I -had money. If she had not been of a soft yielding type she could easily -have entrapped me, but she had not chosen to do so. Anyhow, here I was, -and here I stayed, meditating on the tragedy of it all. - -By this time of course it is quite obvious that I was not an ethically -correct and moral youth, but a sentimental boy of considerable range of -feeling who, facing the confusing evidences of life, was not prepared to -accept anything as final. I did not know then whether I believed that -the morality and right conduct preached by the teachers of the world -were important or not. The religious and social aphorisms of the day had -been impressed upon me, but they did not stick. Something whispered to -me that apart from theory there was another way which the world took and -which had little in common with the strait and narrow path of the -doctrinaires. Not all men swindle in little things, or lie or cheat, but -how few fail to compromise in big ones. Perhaps I would not have -deliberately lied about anything, at least not in important matters, and -I would not now under ordinary circumstances after the one experience in -Chicago have stolen. Beyond this I could not have said how I would have -acted under given circumstances. Women were not included in my moral -speculations as among those who were to receive strict justice—not -pretty women. In that, perhaps, I was right: they did not always wish -it. I was anxious to meet with many of them, as many as I might, and I -would have conducted myself as joyously as their own consciences would -permit. That I was to be in any way punished for this, or that the world -would severely censure me for it, I did not yet believe. Other boys did -it; they were constantly talking about it. The world—the world of youth -at least—seemed to be concerned with libertinage. Why should not I be? - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - - -NO picture of these my opening days in St. Louis would be of the -slightest import if I could not give a fairly satisfactory portrait of -myself and of the blood-moods or so-called spiritual aspirations which -were animating me. At that time I had already attained my full height, -six feet one-and-one-half inches, and weighed only one hundred and -thirty-seven pounds, so you can imagine my figure. Aside from one eye -(the right) which was turned slightly outward from the line of vision, -and a set of upper teeth which because of their exceptional size were -crowded and so stood out too much, I had no particular blemish except a -general homeliness of feature. It was a source of worry to me all the -time, because I imagined that it kept me from being interesting to -women; which, apparently, was not true—not to all women at least. - -Spiritually I was what might be called a poetic melancholiac, crossed -with a vivid materialistic lust of life. I doubt if any human being, -however poetic or however material, ever looked upon the scenes of this -world, material or spiritual, so called, with a more covetous eye. My -body was blazing with sex, as well as with a desire for material and -social supremacy—to have wealth, to be in society—and yet I was too -cowardly to make my way with women readily; rather, they made their way -with me. Love of beauty as such—feminine beauty first and foremost, of -course—was the dominating characteristic of all my moods: joy in the -arch of an eyebrow, the color of an eye, the flame of a lip or cheek, -the romance of a situation, spring, trees, flowers, evening walks, the -moon, the roundness of an arm or a hip, the delicate turn of an ankle or -a foot, spring odors, moonlight under trees, a lighted lamp over a dark -lawn—what tortures have I not endured because of these! My mind was -riveted on what love could bring me, once I had the prosperity and fame -which somehow I foolishly fancied commanded love; and at the same time I -was horribly depressed by the thought that I should never have them, -never; and that thought, for the most part, has been fulfilled. - -In addition to this I was filled with an intense sympathy for the woes -of others, life in all its helpless degradation and poverty, the -unsatisfied dreams of people, their sweaty labors, the things they were -compelled to endure—nameless impositions, curses, brutalities—the things -they would never have, their hungers, thirsts, half-formed dreams of -pleasure, their gibbering insanities and beaten resignations at the end. -I have sobbed dry sobs looking into what I deemed to be broken faces and -the eyes of human failures. A shabby tumbledown district or doorway, a -drunken woman being arraigned before a magistrate, a child dying in a -hospital, a man or woman injured in an accident—the times unbidden tears -have leaped to my eyes and my throat has become parched and painful over -scenes of the streets, the hospitals, the jails! I have cried so often -that I have felt myself to be a weakling; at other times I have been -proud of them and of my great rages against fate and the blundering, -inept cruelty of life. If there is a God, conscious and personal, and He -considers the state of man and the savagery of His laws and His -indifferences, how He must smile at little insect man’s estimate of Him! -It is so flattering, so fatuously unreasoning, that only a sardonic -devil could enjoy it. - -I was happy enough in my work although at times despondent lest all the -pleasures that can come to youth from health, courage, wealth and -opportunity should fail me while I was working and trying to get -somewhere. I had health yet I imagined I had not because I was not a -Sandow, an athlete, and my stomach, due to an undiscovered appendix, -gave me some trouble. As to courage, when I examined myself in that -direction I fancied that I had none at all. Would I slip out if a -dangerous brawl were brewing anywhere? Certainly. Well, then, I was a -coward. Could I stand up and defend myself against a man of my own -height and weight? I doubted it, particularly if he were well-trained. -In consequence, I was again a coward. There was no hope for me among -decently courageous men. Could I play tennis, baseball, football? No; -not successfully. Assuredly I was a weakling of the worst kind. Nearly -everybody could do those things, and nearly all youths were far more -proficient in all the niceties of life than was I: manners, dancing, -knowledge of dress and occasions. Hence I was a fool. The dullest -athlete of the least proficiency could overcome me; the most minute -society man, if socially correct, was infinitely my superior. Hence what -had I to hope for? And when it came to wealth and opportunity, how poor -I seemed! No girl of real beauty and force would have anything to do -with a man who was not a success; and so there I was, a complete failure -to begin with. - -The aches and pains that went with all this, the amazing depression, all -but suicidal. How often have I looked into comfortable homes and wished -that some kindly family would give me shelter! And yet half knowing that -had it been offered I would have refused it. How often have I looked -through the windows of some successful business firm and wished I had -achieved ownership or stewardship, a position similar to that of any of -the officers and managers inside! To be president or vice-president or -secretary of something, some great thrashing business of some kind. -Great God, how sublime it seemed! And yet if I had only known how -centrally controlling the tool of journalism could be made! It mattered -not then that I was doing fairly well, that most of my employers had -been friendly and solicitous as to my welfare, that the few girls I had -approached had responded freely enough—still I was a failure. - -I rapidly became familiar with the city news department of the -_Globe-Democrat_. Its needs, aside from great emergencies, were simple -enough: interviews, the doings of conventions of various kinds -(wholesale grocers, wholesale hardware men, wholesale druggists), the -plans of city politicians when those could be discovered, the news of -the courts, jails, city hospitals, police courts, the deaths of -well-known people, the goings-on in society, special functions of one -kind and another, fires, robberies, defalcations. For the first few -weeks nothing of importance happened. I was given the task evenings of -looking in at the North Seventh Street police station, a slow district, -to see if anything had happened, and was naturally able to add to my -depression by contemplating the life about there. Again, I attended -various churches to hear sermons, interviewed the Irish boss of the -city, Edward Butler, an amazing person with a head like that of a gnome -or ogre, who immediately took a great fancy to me and wanted me to come -and see him again (which I did once). - -He has always stuck in my mind as one of the odd experiences of my life. -He lived in a small red brick family dwelling just beyond the -prostitution area of St. Louis, which stretched out along Chestnut -Street between Twelfth and Twenty-second, and was the city’s sole -garbage contractor (out of which he was supposed to have made countless -thousands) as well as one of its principal horse-shoers, having many -blacksmithing shops, and was incidentally its Democratic or Republican -boss, I forget which, a position he retained until his death. - -I first saw him at a political meeting during my first few weeks in St. -Louis, and the manner in which he arose, the way in which he addressed -his hearers, the way in which they listened to him, all impressed me. -Subsequently, being sent to his house, I found him in his small front -parlor, a yellow plush album on the marble-topped center table, -horse-hair furniture about the room, a red carpet, crayon enlargements -of photographs of his mother and father. But what force in the man! What -innate gentility of manner and speech! He seemed like a prince disguised -as a blacksmith. - -“So ye’ve come to interview me,” he said soothingly. “Ye’re from the -_Globe-Democrat_—well, that paper’s no particular friend of mine, but ye -can’t help that, can ye?” and then he told me whatever it was I wanted -to know, giving me no least true light, you may be sure. At the -conclusion he offered me a drink, which I refused. As I was about to -leave he surveyed me pleasantly and tolerantly. - -“Ye’re a likely lad,” he said, laying an immense hand on one of my lean -shoulders, “and ye’re jest startin’ out in life, I can see that. Well, -be a good boy. Ye’re in the newspaper business, where ye can make -friends or enemies just as ye choose, and if ye behave yerself right ye -can just as well make friends. Come an’ see me some time. I like yer -looks. I’m always here av an evenin’, when I’m not attendin’ a meetin’ -av some kind, right here in this little front room, or in the kitchen -with me wife. I might be able to do something fer ye sometime—remember -that. I’ve a good dale av influence here. Ye’ll have to write what ye’re -told, I know that, so I won’t be offended. So come an’ see me, an’ -remember that I want nothin’ av ye,” and he gently ushered me out and -closed the door behind me. - -But I never went, at least not for anything for myself. The one time I -asked him for a position for a friend who wanted to work on the local -street-cars as a conductor he wrote across the letter: “Give this man -what he wants.” It was wretchedly scrawled (the man brought it back to -me before presenting it) and was signed “edward butler.” But the man was -given the place at once. - -Although Butler was an earnest Catholic, he was supposed to control and -tax the vice of the city; which charge may or may not have been true. -One of his sons owned and managed the leading vaudeville house in the -city, a vulgar burlesque theater, at which the ticket taker was Frank -James, brother of the amazing Jesse who terrorized Missouri and the -Southwest as an outlaw at one time and enriched endless dime novel -publishers afterward. As dramatic critic of the _Globe-Democrat_ later I -often saw him. Butler’s son, a more or less stodgy type of Tammany -politician, popular with a certain element in St. Louis, was later -elected to Congress. - -I wrote up a labor meeting or two, and at one of these saw for the first -time Terence V. Powderly, the head of the dominant labor -organization—the Knights of Labor. This meeting was held in a dingy hall -at Ninth or Tenth and Walnut, a dismal institution known as the -Workingman’s Club or some such thing as that, which had a single red -light hanging out over its main entrance. This long, lank leader, -afterward so much discussed in the so-called “capitalistic press,” was -sitting on a wretched platform surrounded by local labor leaders and -discussed in a none too brilliant way, I thought, the need of a closer -union between all classes of labor. - -In regard to all matters relating to the rights of labor and capital I -was at this time perfectly ignorant. Although I was a laborer myself in -a fair sense of the word I was more or less out of sympathy with -laborers, not as a class struggling for their “rights” (I did not know -what their rights or wrongs were) but merely as individuals. I thought, -I suppose, that they were not quite as _nice_ as I was, not as refined -and superior in their aspirations, and therefore not as worthy or at -least not destined to succeed as well as I. I even then felt dimly what -subsequently, after many rough disillusionments, I came to accept as a -fact: that some people are born dull, some shrewd, some wise and some -undisturbedly ignorant, some tender and some savage, _ad infinitum_. -Some are silk purses and others sows’ ears and cannot be made the one -into the other by any accident of either poverty or wealth. At this -time, however, after listening to Mr. Powderly and taking notes of his -speech, I came to the conclusion that all laborers had a just right to -much better pay and living conditions, and in consequence had a great -cause and ought to stick together. I also saw that Mr. Powderly was a -very shrewd man and something of a hypocrite, very simple-seeming and -yet not so. Something he said or did—I believe it was a remark to the -effect that “I always say a little prayer whenever I have a stitch in my -side”—irritated me. It was so suave, so English-chapel-people-like; and -he was an Englishman, as I recall it. Anyhow, I came away disliking him -and his local labor group, and yet liking his cause and believing in it, -and wrote as favorable a comment as I dared. The _Globe_ was not -pro-corporation exactly, at least I did not understand so, and yet it -was by no means pro-workingman either. If I recall correctly, it merely -gave the barest facts and let it go at that. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XX - - -MY connection with the _Globe-Democrat_ had many aspects, chief among -which was my rapidly developing consciousness of the significance of -journalism and its relation to the life of the nation and the state. My -journalistic career had begun only five months before and preceding that -I had had no newspaper experience of any kind. The most casual reader of -a newspaper would have been as good as I in many respects. - -But here I rather sensed the significance of it all, the power of a man -like McCullagh, for instance, for good or evil, the significance of a -man like Butler in this community. I still had a lot to learn: the -extent of graft in connection with politics in a city, the power of a -newspaper to make sentiment in a State and so help to carry it for a -Governor or a President. The political talk I heard on the part of one -newspaper man and another “doing politics,” as well as the leading -editorials in this and other papers, which just at this time were -concerned with a coming mayoralty fight and a feud in the State between -rival leaders of the Republican party, completely cleared up the -situation for me. I listened to all the gossip, read the papers -carefully, wondered over the personalities and oddities of State -governments in connection with our national government. Just over the -river in Illinois everybody was concerned with the administration of -John P. Altgeld, governor of the State, and whether he would pardon the -Chicago anarchists whose death sentences, recorded a few years before, -had been commuted to life imprisonment. On this side of the river -everybody was interested in the administration of William Joel Stone, -who was the governor. A man by the name of Cyrus H. Walbridge was -certain to be the next mayor if the Republicans won, and according to -the _Globe_, they ought to win because the city needed to be reformed. -The local Democratic board of aldermen was supposed to be the most -corrupt in all America (how many cities have yearly thought that, each -of its governing body, since the nation began!), and Edward Noonan, the -mayor, was supposed to be the lowest and vilest creature that ever stood -up in shoes. The chief editorials of the _Globe_ were frequently -concerned with blazing denunciations of him. As far as I could make out, -he had joined with various corporations and certain members of council -to steal from the city, sell its valuable franchises for a song and the -like. He had also joined with the police in helping bleed the saloons, -gambling dens and houses of prostitution. Gambling and prostitution were -never so rampant as now, so our good paper stated. The good people of -the city should join and help save the city from destruction. - -How familiar it all sounds, doesn’t it? Well, this was 1892, and I have -heard the same song every year since, in every American city in which I -have ever been. Gambling, prostitution, graft, _et cetera_, must be -among our national weaknesses, not? - -Just the same, in so far as this particular office and the country about -St. Louis were concerned, Joseph McCullagh was of immense significance -to his staff and the natives. Plainly he was like a god to many of them, -the farmers and residents in small towns in States like Texas, Iowa, -Missouri, Arkansas and in Southern Illinois, where his paper chiefly -circulated, for they came to the office whenever they were in the city -merely to get a glimpse of him. He was held in high esteem by his staff, -and was one of the few editors of his day who really deserved to be. -Within his office he had an adoring group of followers, which included -everyone from the managing editor down. “The chief says——,” “The chief -thinks——,” “The old man looks a little grouchy this morning—what do you -think?” “Gee, wait’ll the old man hears about that! He’ll be hopping!” -“That ought to please the old man, don’t you think? He likes a bit of -good writing.” Yet for all this chatter, “the old man” never seemed to -notice much of anything or have much to say to any one, except possibly -to one or two of his leading editorial writers and his telegraph editor. -If he ever conferred with his stout city editor for more than one moment -at a time I never saw or heard of it. And if anything seen or heard by -anybody in connection with him was not whispered about the reporters’ -room before nightfall or daybreak it was a marvel of concealment. -Occasionally he might be seen ambling down the hall to the lavatory or -to the room of his telegraph chief, but most always it was merely to -take his carriage or walk to the Southern Hotel at one o’clock for his -luncheon or at six for his dinner, his derby hat pulled over his eyes, -his white socks gleaming, a cane in his hand, a cigar between his lips. -If he ever had a crony it was not known in the reporters’ room. He was a -solitary or eccentric, and a few years later, as I have said, he leaped -to his death from the second story window of his home, where he had -lived in as much privacy and singularity as a Catholic priest. - -There were silent figures slipping about—Captain King, a chief editorial -writer; Casper S. Yost, a secretary of the corporation, assistant editor -and what not; several minor editors, artists, reporters, the city -editor, the business manager—but no one or all of them collectively -seemed to amount to a hill of beans. Only “the old man” or J. B., as he -was occasionally referred to, counted. Under him the paper had -character, succinctness and point, not only in its news but in its -editorial columns. Although it was among the conventional of the -conventional of its day (what American newspaper of that period could -have been otherwise?), still it had an awareness which made one feel -that “the old man” knew much more than he ever wrote. He seemed to like -to have it referred to as “the great religious daily” and often quoted -that phrase, but with the saving grace of humor behind it. - -And he seemed to understand just how to supply that region with all it -desired in the shape of news. Though in the main the paper published -mere gossip, oddities about storms, accidents, eccentricities, still -there was something about the way the thing was done, the crisp and -brief manner in which the material was edited, which made it -palatable—very much so, I should say, to the small-town store-lounger or -owner—and nearly all had humor, naïveté or pathos. The drift of things -politically was always presented in leaders in such a way that even I, a -mere stripling, began to get a sense of things national and -international. States, the adjacent ones in particular, which supplied -the bulk of the _Globe’s_ circulation, were given special attention and -yet in such a way as not to irritate the general reader, leaving it -optional with him whether he should read or not. The editorials, -sometimes informing, sometimes threatening and directive, sometimes mere -fol-de-rol and foolery, and intended as such, had a delicious whimsy in -them. Occasionally “the old man” himself wrote one and then everybody -sat up and took notice. One could easily single it out even if it had -not been passed around, as it nearly always was. “The old man wrote -that.” “Have you read the old man’s editorial in this morning’s paper? -Gee! Read it!” Then you expected brilliant, biting words, a luminous -phraseology, sentences that cracked like a whip, and you were rarely -disappointed. The paragraphs exploded at times, burst like a torpedo; at -others the whole thing ended like music, the deep, sonorous bass of an -organ. “The old man” could write, there was no doubt of that. He also -seemed to believe what he wrote, for the time being anyhow. That was why -his staff, to a man, revered him. He was a real editor, as contrasted -with your namby-pamby “business man” masquerading as editor. He had been -a great reporter and war correspondent in his day, one of the men who -were with Farragut on the Mississippi and with Sherman and others -elsewhere during the great Civil War. - -Wandering about this building at this time was an old red-faced, -red-nosed German, with a protuberant stomach, very genial, dull and -apparently unimportant. He was, as I later learned, the real owner of -the paper, the major portion of the stock being in his name; and yet, as -every one seemed to understand, he never dared pose as such but must -slip about, as much overawed as the rest of us. I was a mere underling -and new to the place, and yet I could see it. A more apologetic mien and -a more obliging manner was never worn by any mortal, especially when he -was in the vicinity of McCullagh’s office. His name was Daniel M. -Hauser. For the most part he wandered about the building like a ghost, -seeming to wish to be somebody or to say something but absolutely -without meaning. The short, stout Napoleonic editor ruled supreme. - - * * * * * - -By degrees I made friends with a number of those that worked here: Bob -Hazard; Jock Bellairs, son of the Captain Bellairs who presided over the -city zoo; Charlie Benson, and a long list of others whose names escape -me now. Of all those on the city staff I was inclined to like Hazard -most, for he was a personage, a character, quick, gay, intellectual, -literary, forceful. Why he never came to greater literary fame I do not -know, for he seemed to have all the flair and feeling necessary for the -task. He was an only son of some man who had long been a resident of St. -Louis and was himself well known about town. He lived with a mother and -sister in southwest St. Louis in a small cottage which always pleased me -because of its hominess, and supported that mother and sister in loyal -son-like fashion. I had not been long on the paper before I was invited -there to dinner, and this in spite of a rivalry which was almost -immediately and unconsciously set up between us the moment I arrived and -which endured in a mild way even after our more or less allied literary -interests had drawn us socially together. At his home I met his sister, -a mere slip of a tow-headed girl, whom later on I saw in vaudeville as a -headliner. Hazard I encountered years later as a blasé correspondent in -Washington, representing a league of papers. He had then but newly -completed a wild-West thriller, done in cold blood and with an eye to a -quick sale. Assuming that I had influence with publishers and editors, -he invoked my aid. I gave him such advice and such letters as I could. -But only a few months later I read that Robert Hazard, well-known -newspaper correspondent, living with his wife and child in some -Washington residence section, had placed a revolver to his temple and -ended it all. Why, I have often wondered. He was seemingly so well -fitted mentally and physically to enjoy life.... Or is it mental fitness -that really kills the taste for life? - -I would not dwell on him at such length save for some other things which -I propose later to narrate. For the moment I wish to turn to another -individual, “Jock” Bellairs, who impressed me as a most curious compound -of indifference, wisdom, literary and political sense and a hard social -cunning. He had a capacity for (as some one in the office once phrased -it) a “lewd and profane life.” He was the chief police reporter at a -building known as the “Four Courts,” an institution which housed, among -other things, four judicial chambers of differing jurisdiction, as well -as the county jail, the city detention wards, the office of the district -attorney, the chief of police, chief of detectives, the city attorney, -and a “reporters’ room” where all the local reporters were permitted to -gather and were furnished paper, ink, tables. - -A more dismal atmosphere than that which prevailed in this building, and -in similar institutions in all the cities in which I ever worked, would -be hard to find. In Chicago it was the city hall and county courthouse, -with its police attachment; in Pittsburgh the county jail; in New York -the Tombs and Criminal Courts Building, with police headquarters as a -part of its grim attachment. I know of nothing worse. These places, -essential as they are, are always low in tone, vile, and defile nearly -all they touch. They have a corrupting effect upon those with whom they -come in contact and upon those who are employed to administer law or -“justice.” Harlots, criminals, murderers, buzzard lawyers, political -judges, detectives, police agents, and court officials generally—what a -company! I have never had anything to do with one of these institutions -in any city as reporter, plaintiff or assisting friend, without sensing -anew the brutality and horror of legal administration. The petty -tyrannies that are practiced by underlings and minor officials! The -“grafting” of low, swinish brains! The tawdry pomp of ignorant -officials! The cruelty and cunning of agents of justice! “Set a thief to -catch a thief.” Clothe these officials as you will, in whatsoever -uniforms of whatsoever splendor or sobriety; give them desks of rosewood -and walls of flowered damask; entitle them as you choose, High and -Mightiness This and That—still they remain the degraded things they have -always been, equals of the criminals and the crimes they are supposed to -do away with. It cannot be helped; it is a law of chemistry, of -creation. Offal breeds maggots to take care of it, to nullify its -stench; carrion has its buzzards, carrion crows and condors. So with -criminals and those petty officials of the lower courts and jails who -are set to catch them. - -But this is a wandering paragraph and has little to do with “Jock” -Bellairs, except that he was of and yet not of this particular -atmosphere. The first time I saw him I felt compelled to study him, for -he seemed somehow to suggest this atmosphere to which he was appointed -as reporter. He was in a way, and yet with pleasing reservations, the -man for this task. He had a sense of humor and a devil-may-care approach -to all this. Whenever anything of real import broke loose he was always -the one to be called upon for information or aid, because he was in -close touch with the police and detectives, who were his cronies and -ready to aid him. And whenever anything happened that was beyond his -power to manage he called up the office for aid. On more than one -occasion, some “mystery” coming up, I was the one delegated to help him, -the supposition being that it was likely to yield a “big” story, bigger -than he had time for, being a court fixture. I then sought him out at -the Four Courts and was given what he knew, whereupon I began -investigations on my own account. Nearly always I found him lolling -about with other reporters and detectives, a chair tilted back, possibly -a game of cards going on between him and the reporters of other papers, -a bottle of whisky in his pocket—“to save time,” as he once amusingly -remarked—and a girl or two present, friends of one or other of these -newspaper men, their “dollies.” He would rise and explain to me just -what was going on, whisper confidentially in my ear the name of some -other newspaper man who had been put on the case by one of the other -papers, perhaps ask me to mention the name of some shabby policeman or -detective who had been assigned to the case, one who was “a good fellow” -and who could be depended upon to help us in the future. - -I often had to smile, he was so naïve and yet so wise in his position, -so matter-of-fact and commonplace about it all. Sometimes he would give -me the most befuddling information as to how the news got out: he and -John Somebody or Other were down at Maggie Sanders’s place in Chestnut -Street the other night, where he heard from a detective, who was telling -somebody else, who told somebody else, and so on. Then, if there was a -prisoner in the case, he would take me to him, or tell me where some -individual or the body was to be found if there was a body. Then, after -I had gone about my labors, he would return to his card-game, his girl -and his bottle. There were stories afloat of outings with these girls, -or the using of some empty room in this building for immoral purposes, -with the consent of complaisant officials. And all about, of course, was -this atmosphere of detained criminals, cases at trial, hurrying parents -and members of families, weeping mothers and sisters—a mess. - -On an average of twice a month during my stay in St. Louis I was called -to this building on one errand and another, and always I went with a -sicky and sinking sensation, and always I came away from it breathing a -sigh of relief. To me it was a horrible place, a pest-hole of suffering -and error and trickery, and yet necessary enough, I know. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - - -I WAS walking down the marble hall of our editorial floor one day not -long after I arrived when I noted on a door at its extreme end the -words: “Art Department.” The _Globe_ in Chicago had no art department, -at least I never discovered it. The mere word _art_, although I had no -real understanding of it, was fascinating to me. Was it not on every -tongue? A man who painted or drew was an artist; Doré was one, for -instance, and Rembrandt. (I classed the two together.) In Chicago I had -of course known that each paper should have an art department, and that -interested me in this one. What were artists like? I had never known -one. - -Another day I was on my way to the lavatory when I discovered that I had -come away without the key, a duplicate of which every department -possessed. The art department door being nearest, I entered to borrow -theirs. Behold, three distinctive if not distinguished looking -individuals at work upon drawings laid upon drawing-boards. Two of these -looked up, the one nearest me with a look of criticism in his eye, I -thought. The one who answered me when I asked for the key, and who -swiftly arose to get it for me, was short and stocky, with bushy, -tramp-like hair and beard. There was something that savored of opera -bouffe about him, and yet, as I could see, he took himself seriously -enough. There was something pleasing in his voice too as he said, -“Certainly; here it is,” and smiled. - -The one who had looked up at first and frowned but made no move was much -less cheery. I recall the long, thin, sallow face, the coal-black hair, -long and coarse, which was parted most carefully in the middle and -slicked down at the sides and back over the ears until it looked as -though it had been oiled, and the eyes, black and small and querulous -and petulant, as was the mouth, with drawn lines at each corner, as -though he had endured much pain. That long, loose, flowing black tie! -And that soft white or blue or green or brown linen shirt!—would any -Quartier Latin denizen have been without them? He had thin, pale bony -hands, long and graceful, and an air of “touch thou me not, O defiled -one.” The man appealed to and repelled me at a glance, appealing to me -much more later, and ever remained a human humoresque, something to -coddle, endure, decipher, laugh at. Surely Dick Wood, or “Richard Wood, -Artist,” as his card read, might safely be placed in any pantheon of the -unconventionally ridiculous and delicious. - -This visit provided a mere glance, however. When I returned the key I -was given no encouragement. A little later, my ability to write having -been fairly established, I was given a rather large order for one so -new: a double-page spread, with illustrations, for the Sunday issue, -relating to the new depot then under construction. I was told to see -that the art department supplied several drawings—one in particular of a -proposed iron and glass train-shed which was to cover thirty-two tracks. -Also one of a clock-tower two hundred and thirty-two feet high. This -assignment seemed a very honorable one, since it was to carry drawings, -and I went about it with energy and enthusiasm. It was Mitchell who told -me to look to the art department for suitable illustrations. - -Evidently the art department knew all about it before my arrival, for -upon inquiry I found that P. B. McCord, he of the tramp-like hair and -whiskers, was scheduled to make the pictures. His manner pleased me. He -was so cordial, so helpful. Together we visited the depot, and a few -days later he called upon me in the reportorial room to ask me to come -and see what he had done. Having in regard to most things the same point -of view, we were soon the best of friends. A more or less affectionate -relationship was then and there established, which endured until his -death sixteen years later. During all of that period we were scarcely -out of touch with each other, and through him I was destined to achieve -some of my sanest conceptions of life. (See _Peter_. Twelve Men.) - -And the amazing Wood! I have never encountered another like him, -possibly because for years I have not been associated with young people, -who are frequently full of eccentricities. A more romantic ass than Wood -never lived, nor one with better sense in many ways. In regard to -newspaper drawing he was only a fairly respectable craftsman, if so -much, but in other ways he was fascinating enough. He and McCord were -compelled at that time to use the old chalk plate process for much of -their hurried work, a thing which required the artist to scratch with a -steel upon a chalk-covered surface, blowing the chalk away from his -outlines as he made them. This created a dust which both McCord and Wood -complained of as being disagreeable and “hard on the lungs.” Wood, who -pretended to be dying of consumption, and did die of it sixteen years -later within a month of his friend McCord, made an awful row about it, -although he could easily have done much to mend matters by taking a -little exercise and keeping out of doors as much as possible; but he -preferred to hover over a radiator or before a fire. Always, on every -occasion, he was given to playing the rôle of the martyr. - -Spiritually he was morbid, as was I, only he showed it much more in his -manner. He had much the same desire as I had at the time: to share in -the splendors of marble halls and palaces and high places generally; -and, like myself, he had but little chance. Fresh from Bloomington, -Illinois, a commonplace American town, he was obsessed by the -commonplace dream of marrying rich and coming into the imaginary -splendors of that west end life of St. Louis which was so interesting to -both of us. Far more than myself, I am sure, he seemed to be seething -with an inward rebellion against the fact that he was poor, not included -in the exclusive pleasures of the rich. At the same time he was glowing -with a desire to make other people imagine that he was or soon would be -of them. What airs! what shades of manner! He, like myself, was forever -dreaming of some gorgeous maiden, rich, beautiful, socially elect, who -was to solve all his troubles for him. But there was this difference -between us, or so I imagined at the time, Dick being an artist, rather -remote and disdainful in manner and handsome as well as poetic and -better-positioned than myself, as I fancied, was certain to achieve this -gilded and crystal state whereas I, not being so handsome, nor an -artist, nor sufficiently poetic, could hardly aspire to so gorgeous an -end. I might perchance arrive at some such goal if I sought it eagerly -enough, but the probabilities were that I should not unless I waited a -long while, and besides, my dreams and plans varied so swiftly from day -to day that I couldn’t be sure what I wanted to do, whereas Wood, being -so stable in this, that and the other (all the things I was not), was -certain to arrive quickly. - -Sometimes around dinner time when I would see him leaving the office -arrayed in the latest mode, as I assumed—dark blue suit, patent leather -boots, dark, round, soft felt hat, loose tie blowing idly about his -neck, neat thin cane in his hand—I was fairly convinced that this -much-anticipated fortune had already arrived or was about to arrive, -this very evening perhaps, and that I should never see him more, never -even be permitted to speak to him. Somewhere (out in the west end, of -course) was _the_ girl, wondrous, rich, beautiful, with whom he was to -elope and be forgiven by her wealthy parents. Even now he was on his way -to her, while I, poor oaf that I was, was moiling here over some trucky -task. Would my ship never come in, my great day arrive? - -And Wood was just the type of person who would take infinite delight in -creating such an impression. Ten years later, when McCord and I were in -the East together and Wood was still in St. Louis, we were never weary -of discussing this histrionic characteristic of his, laughing -sympathetically with and at him. Later he married—but I shall not -anticipate. Mentally, at this time, he was living a dream and in so far -as possible acting it, playing the part of some noble Algernon Charles -Claude Vere de Vere, heir to or affianced to some maid with an immense -fortune which was to make them both eternally happy and allow him to -travel, pose, patronize as he chose. A laudable dream, verily. - -But I—I confess that I was bitter with envy. What, never to shine thus? -Never to be an artist? Never to have beauty in my lap? For me there were -other stings, in connection with him—stings sharp as serpents’ teeth. -Dick had a wrist-watch, the envy of my youthful days (oh, wondrous -watch!) Also a scarf pin made of some strange stone brought from the -Orient and with a cabalistic sign or word on it (enough in itself to -entice any heiress)—-and that _boutonnière_ of violets! He was never -without them. - -And along with all this, that sad, wan, reproachful, dying smile! And -that mysterious something of manner which seemed to say: “My boy! My -boy! The things you will never know!” - -And yet after a time Dick condescended to receive me into his confidence -and into his “studio,” a very picturesque affair, situated in the heart -of the downtown district. Also he condescended to bestow upon me some of -his dreams as well as his friendly presence; a thing which exalted me, -being so new to this art world. I was _permitted_ (note the word) to -gather dimly, as neophyte from priest, the faintest outlines of these -wondrous dreams of his, and to share with him the hope that they might -be realized. I was so set up by this great favor that I felt certain -great things must flow from it. Assuredly we three could do great things -if only we would stick together. But was I worthy? There were already -rumors of books, plays, stories, poems, to come from a certain mighty -pen—as a matter of fact, it was already hard upon the task of writing -them—which were to set the world aflame by-and-by. Certain editors in -New York were already receiving (and sending back, alas!) certain -preliminary masterpieces along with carefully worded suggestions in -regard to slight but necessary changes which would perfect them and so -inaugurate the new era. Certain writers, certain poets, certain -playwrights were already better than any that had ever been—the best -ever, in short. Dick knew, of course, and I was allowed to share this -knowledge, to be thrilled by it. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - - -ONCE the ice was broken in this way intimacy with these twain came fast -enough, although I never became quite as intimate with Dick as I did -with Peter, largely because I could not think him as important. Wood had -some feminine characteristics; he could be very jealous of anybody’s -interest in Peter as well as Peter’s interest in anybody else. He was -big enough, at times, to see the pettiness of this and try to rise above -it, but at other times it would show. Years later McCord confided to me -in the most amused way how, when I first appeared on the scene, Dick at -once began to belittle me and to resent my obvious desire to “break in,” -as he phrased it, these two, according to Dick, having established some -excluding secret union. - -But the union was not exclusive, in so far as Peter was concerned. -Shortly after my arrival young Hartung had begun running into the art -room (so Peter told me) with amazing tales of the new man, his exploits -in Chicago. I had been sent for to come to this paper—that was the great -thing. I was vouched for by no less a person than John T. McEnnis, one -of the famous newspaper men of St. Louis and a former city editor of -this same paper; also by a Mr. Somebody (the Washington correspondent of -the paper), for whom I had worked in Chicago on the World’s Fair. He had -hurried to the art department with his tales of me, wishing, I fancy, to -be on friendly and happy terms there. Dick, however, considered -Hartung’s judgment as less than nothing, himself an upstart, a mere -office rat; to have him endeavor to introduce anybody was too much. At -first he received me very coldly, then finding me perhaps better than he -thought, he hastened to make friends with me. - -The halcyon hours with these two that followed. Not infrequently Peter -and Dick would dine together at some downtown restaurant; or, if a rush -of work were on and they were compelled to linger, they had a late -supper in some German saloon. It was Peter who first invited me to one -of these late séances, and later Wood did the same, but this last was -based on another development in connection with myself which I should -narrate here. - -The office of the _Globe_ proved a sprouting-bed for incipient literary -talent. Hazard had, some fifteen or eighteen months before, in company -with another newspaper man of whom later I heard amazing things, written -a novel entitled _Theo_, which was plainly a bog-fire kindled by those -blazing French suns, Zola and Balzac. The scene was laid in Paris -(imagine two Western newspaper men who had never been out of America -writing a novel of French life and laying it in Paris!) and had much of -the atmosphere of Zola’s _Nana_, plus the delicious idealism of Balzac’s -_The Great Man from the Provinces_. Never having read either of these -authors at this time, I did not see the similarity, but later I saw it -plainly. One or both of these men had fed up on the French realists to -such an extent that they were able to create the illusion of France (for -me at least) and at the same time to fire me with a desire to create -something, perhaps a novel of this kind but preferably a play. It seemed -intensely beautiful to me at the time, this book, with its frank -pictures of raw, greedy, sensual human nature, and its open pictures of -self-indulgence and vice. - -The way this came about was interesting but I would not relate it save -that it had such a marked effect on me. I was sitting in the city -reportorial room later one gloomy December afternoon, having returned -from a fruitless assignment, when a letter was handed me. It was -postmarked Chicago and addressed in the handwriting of Alice. Up to then -I had allowed matters to drift, having, as I have said, written but one -letter in which I apologized rather indifferently for having come away -without seeing her. But my conscience had been paining me so much that -when I saw her writing I started. I tore the letter open and read with a -sense of shame: - - “Dear Theo: - - “I got your letter the day you left, but then it was too late. I - know what you say is true, about your being called away, and I - don’t blame you. I’m only sorry our quarrel” (there had been - none save of my making) “didn’t let you come to see me before - you left. Still, that was my fault too, I guess. I can’t blame - you entirely for that. - - “Anyhow, Theo, that isn’t what I’m writing you for. You know - that you haven’t been just the same to me as you once were. I - know how you feel. I have felt it too. I want to know if you - won’t send me back the letters I wrote you. You won’t want them - now. Please send them, Theo, and believe I am as ever your - friend, - - “ALICE.” - -There was a little blank space on the paper, and then: - - “I stood by the window last night and looked out on the street. - The moon was shining and those dead trees over the way were - waving in the wind. I saw the moon on that little pool of water - over in the field. It looked like silver. Oh, Theo, I wish I - were dead.” - -As I read this I jumped up and clutched the letter. The pathos of it cut -me to the quick. To think I should have left her so! To think I should -be here and she there! Why hadn’t I written? Why had I shilly-shallied -these many days? Of course she wished to die. And I—what of me? - -I went over the situation and tried to figure out what I should do. -Should I send for her? Twenty dollars a week was very little for two. My -legitimate expenses made a total of eleven a week. I wished to keep -myself looking well, to have a decent room, to eat three fair meals a -day. And I was in no position to return to Chicago, where I had earned -less. Then my new friendships with Wood and McCord as well as with other -newspaper men, nearly all of whom liked to drink, were costing me -something extra; I could not associate with them without buying an -occasional drink. I did not see where I was to save much or how I could -support a wife. In addition, there was the newness of my position here. -I could not very well leave it now, having just come from Chicago. By -nature where things material of futurial were concerned I was timid, but -little inclined to battle for my rights or desires, and consequently not -often realizing them. I was in a trying situation, for I had, as I have -said, let it appear to Alice that money was no object. With the vanity -of youth, I had always talked of my good salary and comfortable -position, and now that this salary and comfortable position were to be -put to the test I did not know what to do about it. Honesty would have -dictated a heartfelt confession, of course. - -But I made none. Instead I wavered between two horns of an -ever-recurring dilemma. Sympathizing with the pain which Alice was -suffering, and alive to my own loss of honor and happiness, still I -hesitated to pull down the fine picture of myself which I had so -artistically built up, to reveal myself as I really was, a man unable to -marry on his present salary. If I had loved her more, if I had really -respected her, if I had not looked upon her as one who might be so -easily put aside, I would have done something about it. My natural -tendency was to drift, to wait and see, suffering untold agonies in the -meanwhile. This I was preparing to do now. - -These mental stresses were always sufficient, however, to throw me into -a soulful mood. And now as I looked out of the window on the “fast -widowing sky” it was with an ache that rivaled in intensity those -melancholy moods we sometimes find interpreted by music. Indeed my heart -was torn by the inextricable problems which life seemed ever to present -and I fairly wrung my hands as I looked into the face of the hurrying -world. How it was hastening away! How swiftly and insensibly my own life -was slipping by! The few sweets which I had thus far tasted were always -accompanied by such bitter repinings. No pleasure was without pain, as I -had already seen, and life offered no solution. Only silence and the -grave ended it all. - -My body was racked with a fine tremor, my brain ached. I went to my desk -and took up a pencil. I sat looking into the face of the tangle as one -might into the gathering front of a storm. Words moved in my brain, then -bubbled, then marshaled themselves into curious lines and rhythms. I put -my pencil to paper and wrote line after line. - -Presently I saw that I was writing a poem but that it was rough and -needed modifying and polishing. I was in a great fever to change it and -did so but more eager to go on with my idea, which was about this tangle -of life. I became so moved and interested that I almost forgot Alice in -the process. When I read it over it seemed but a poor reflection of the -thoughts I had felt, the great sad mood I was in. Then I sat there, -dissatisfied and unhappy, resolving to write Alice and tell her all. - -I took a pen and wrote her that I could not marry her now, that I was in -no position to do so. Later, if I found myself in better shape -financially, I would come back. I told her that I did not want to send -back her letters, that I did not wish to think our love was at an end. I -had not meant to run away. I closed by saying that I still loved her and -that the picture she had painted of herself standing at the window in -the moonlight had torn my heart. But I could not write it as effectually -as I might have, for I was haunted by the idea that I should never keep -my word. Something kept telling me that it was not wise, that I didn’t -really want to. - -While I was writing Hazard came into the room and glanced over my -shoulder to where the poem was lying. “What you doing, Dreiser? Writing -poetry?” - -“Trying to,” I replied a little shamefacedly. “I don’t seem to be able -to make much of it, though.” The while I was wondering at the novelty of -being taken for a poet. It seemed such a fine thing to be. - -“There’s no money in it,” he observed helpfully. “You can’t sell ’em. -I’ve written tons of ’em, but it don’t do any good. You’d better be -putting your time on a book or a play.” - -A book or a play! I sat up. To be considered a writer, a dramatist—even -a possible dramatist—raised me in my own estimation. Why, at this rate I -might become one—who knows? - -“I know it isn’t profitable,” I said. “Still, it might be if I wrote -them well enough. It would be a great thing to be a great poet.” - -Hazard smiled sardonically. From his pinnacle of twenty-six years such -aspirations seemed ridiculous. I might be a good newspaper man (I think -he was willing to admit that), but a poet! - -The discussion took the turn of book- and play-writing. He had written a -book in connection with Young, I think his name was. He had lately been -thinking of writing a play. He expatiated on the money there was to be -made out of this, the great name some playwrights achieved. Look at -Augustus Thomas now, who had once worked on the _Star_ here. One of his -pieces was then running in St. Louis. Look at Henry Blossom, once a St. -Louis society boy, one of whose books was now in the local bookstore -windows, a hit. To my excited mind the city was teeming with brilliant -examples. Eugene Field had once worked here, on this very paper; Mark -Twain had idled about here for a time, drunk and hopeless; W. C. Brann -had worked on and gone from this paper; William Marion Reedy the same. - -I returned to my desk after a time, greatly stirred by this -conversation. My gloom was dissipated. Hazard had promised to let me -read this book. This world was a splendid place for talent, I thought. -It bestowed success and honor upon those who could succeed. Plays or -books, or both, were the direct entrance to every joy which the heart -could desire. Something of the rumored wonder and charm of the lives of -successful playwrights came to me, their studios, their summer homes and -the like. Here at last, then, was the equivalent of Dick’s wealthy girl! - -I sat thinking about plays somewhat modified in my grief over Alice for -the nonce, but none the less aware of its tremendous sadness. I read -over my poem and thought it good, even beautiful. I must be a poet! I -copied it and put a duplicate in Alice’s letter, and folded my own copy -and put it in my pocket, close to my heart. It seemed as though I had -just forged a golden key to a world of beauty and light where sorrow and -want could never be. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - - -THE central character of Hazard’s book was an actress, young and very -beautiful. Her lover was a newspaper man, deeply in love with her and -yet not faithful, in one instance anyhow. This brought about a Zolaesque -scene in which she spanked another actress with a hairbrush. There was -treacherous plotting on the part of somebody in regard to a local -murder, which brought about the arrest and conviction of the newspaper -man for something he knew nothing about. This entailed a great struggle -on the part of Theo to save him, which resulted in her failure and his -death on the guillotine. A priest figured in it in some way, grim, -jesuitical. - -To this day some of the scenes of this book come back to me as having -been forcefully done—the fight between the two actresses, for one thing, -a midnight feast with several managers, the gallows scene, a confession. -I am not sure of the name of the newspaper man who collaborated with -Hazard on this work, but the picture of his death in an opium joint -later, painted for me by Hazard, and the eccentricities of his daily -life, stand out even now as Poe-like. He must have been blessed or -cursed with some such temperament as that of Poe, dark, gloomy, -reckless, poetic, for he was a dope-fiend and died of dope. - -Be that as it may, this posthumous work, never published, so far as I -know, was the opening wedge for me into the realm of realism. Being -distinctly imitative of Balzac and Zola, the method was new and to me -impressive. It has always struck me as curious that the first novel -written by an American that I read in manuscript should have been one -which by reason of its subject matter and the puritanic character of the -American mind could never be published. These two youths knew this. -Hazard handed it to me with the statement: “Of course a thing like this -could never be published over here. We’d have to get it done abroad.” -That struck me as odd at the time—the fact that if one wrote a fine -thing nevertheless because of an American standard I had not even -thought of before, one might not get it published. How queer, I thought. -Yet these two incipient artists had already encountered it. They had -been overawed to the extent of thinking it necessary to write of French, -not American life in terms of fact. Such things as they felt called upon -to relate occurred only in France, never here—or at least such things, -if done here, were never spoken of. I think it nothing less than tragic -that these men, or boys, fresh, forceful, imbued with a burning desire -to present life as they saw it, were thus completely overawed by the -moral hypocrisy of the American mind and did not even dare to think of -sending their novel to an American publisher. Hazard was deeply -impressed with the futility of attempting to do anything with a book of -that kind. The publishers wouldn’t stand for it. You couldn’t write -about life as it was; you had to write about it as somebody else thought -it was, the ministers and farmers and dullards of the home. Yet here he -was, as was I, busy in a profession that was hourly revealing the fact -that this sweetness and light code, this idea of a perfect world which -contained neither sin nor shame for any save vile outcasts, criminals -and vagrants, was the trashiest lie that was ever foisted upon an all -too human world. Not a day, not an hour, but the pages of the very -newspaper we were helping to fill with our scribbled observations were -full of the most incisive pictures of the lack of virtue, honesty, -kindness, even average human intelligence, not on the part of a few but -of nearly everybody. Not a business, apparently, not a home, not a -political or social organization or an individual but in the course of -time was guilty of an infraction of some kind of this seemingly perfect -and unbroken social and moral code. But in spite of all this, judging by -the editorial page, the pulpit and the noble mouthings of the average -citizen speaking for the benefit of his friends and neighbors, all men -were honest—only they weren’t; all women were virtuous and without evil -intent or design—but they weren’t; all mothers were gentle, -self-sacrificing slaves, sweet pictures for songs and Sunday -Schools—only they weren’t; all fathers were kind, affectionate, saving, -industrious—only they weren’t. But when describing actual facts for the -news columns, you were not allowed to indicate these things. Side by -side with the most amazing columns of crimes of every kind and -description would be other amazing columns of sweet mush about love, -undying and sacrificial, editorials about the perfection of the American -man, woman, child, his or her sweet deeds, intentions and the like—a -wonderful dose. And all this last in the face of the other, which was -supposed to represent the false state of things, merely passing -indecencies, accidental errors that did not count. If a man like Hazard -or myself had ventured to transpose a true picture of facts from the -news columns of the papers, from our own reportorial experiences, into a -story or novel, what a howl! Ostracism would have followed much more -swiftly in that day than in this, for today turgid slush approximating -at least some of the facts is tolerated. Fifteen years later Hazard told -me he still had his book buried in a trunk somewhere, but by then he had -turned to adventurous fiction, and a year later, as I have said, be blew -his brains out. - -Just the same the book made a great impression on me! It gave me a great -respect for Hazard, made me really fond of him. And it fixed my mind -definitely on this matter of writing—not a novel, curiously, but a play, -a form which from the first seemed easier for me and which I still -consider so, one in which I work with greater ease than I do in the -novel. I mentioned to Wood and McCord that Hazard and another man had -written a novel and that I had read it. I must have enthused over it for -both were impressed, and I myself seemed to gain standing, especially -with Wood. It was generally admitted then that Hazard was one of the -best reporters in the city, and my being taken into his confidence in -this fashion seemed to Wood to be a significant thing. - -And not long after that I had something else to tell these two which -carried great weight. There was at that time on the editorial page of -the paper a column entitled “Heard in the Corridors,” which was nothing -more than a series of imaginary interviews with passing guests at the -various hotels, or interviews condensed into short tales, about six to -the column, one at least being accredited to a guest at each of the -three principal hotels, the others standing accredited as things heard -at the Union Station or upon the street somewhere. Previous to my -arrival this column had been written by various men, the last one having -been the already famous W. C. Brann, then editor of the brilliant -_Iconoclast_. By the time I arrived, however, Brann had departed, and -the column had sagged. Hazard was doing a part of it, Bellairs another, -but both were tired of it. At first when I considered it (a little extra -work added to my daily reporting) I was not so pleased; indeed it seemed -an all but impossible thing to do. Later, however, after a trial, I -discovered that it gave free rein to my wildest imaginings, which was -exactly what I wanted. I could write any sort of story I pleased, -romantic, realistic or lunatic, and credit it to some imaginary guest at -one of the hotels, and if it was not too improbable it was passed -without comment. At any rate, when this was assigned to me I went forth -to get names of personages stopping at the hotels. I inquired for -celebrities. As a rule, the clerks could give me no information or were -indifferent, and seemed to take very little interest in having the hotel -advertised. I returned and racked my brain, decided that I could -manufacture names as well as stories, and forthwith scribbled six -marvels, attaching such names as came into my mind. The next day these -were all duly published and I was told to do the column regularly as -well as my regular assignments. My asinine ebullience had won me a new -task without any increase in pay. - -However, it seemed an honor to have a whole column assigned to me, and -this honor I communicated to McCord and Wood. It was then that either -Wood or McCord informed me that Brann had done it previously and had -written snake stories for the paper into the bargain. This flattered me, -for they pictured him for what he was, a rare soul, and I felt myself -growing. Peter had illustrated some of these tales for him, for, as he -said with mock dignity: “I am the official snake artist of this paper.” -That very night, as a reward for my efficiency I was invited by Dick to -come to his room—_the_ room, the studio—where he inflicted about nine of -his horrible masterpieces upon me. - -I would not make so much of this great honor if it were not for what it -meant to me then. The room was large and dark, on Broadway between -Market and Walnut, with the cars jangling below. It contained one great -white bed, a long table covered with the papers and literary -compositions of Mr. Richard Wood, and was decorated and reinforced with -that gentleman’s conception of what constituted literary insignia. On -the walls hung dusty engravings representing the death of Hamlet and the -tempting of Faust. In one corner, over a chest of drawers, was the -jagged blade of a sword-fish, and in another a most curious display of -oriental coins. The top of the wardrobe was surmounted by a gruesome -_papier-mâché_ head representing that somewhat demented creature known -in England as Ally Sloper. A clear space at one corner of the table held -a tin pail for carrying beer, and the floor, like the walls, was covered -with some dusty brown material which might once have been a carpet. -Owing to the darkness of the furnishings and the brightness of the fire, -the room had a very cheery look. - -“Say, Dick, did you see where one of ——’s plays had made a great hit in -New York?” asked McCord. “He’s made a strike this time.” - -“No,” replied Dick solemnly, poking among the coals of the grate and -drawing up a chair. “Sit down, Dreiser. Pull up a chair, Peter. This -confounded grate smokes whenever the wind’s from the South. Still -there’s nothing like a grate fire.” - -We drew up chairs. I was revolving in my mind the charm of the room and -a vision of greatness in play-writing. These two men seemed subtly -involved with the perfection of the arts. In this atmosphere, with such -companions, I felt that I could accomplish anything, and soon. - -“I’ll tell you how it is with the game of play-writing,” observed Dick -sententiously. “You have to have imagination and feeling and all that, -but what’s more important than anything is a little business sense, to -know how to get in with those fellows. You might have the finest play in -the world in your pocket, but if you didn’t know how to dispose of it -what good would it do you? None at all. You got to know that end first.” - -He reached over and pulled the coal-scuttle into position as a footrest -and then looked introspectively at the ceiling. - -“The play’s the thing,” put in Peter. “If you could write a real good -play you wouldn’t need to worry about getting it staged.” - -“Aw, wouldn’t I? Listen to that now!” commented Dick irascibly. “I tell -you, Peter, you don’t know anything about it. You only think you do; -that’s all. Say, did Campbell have a good play in his pocket or didn’t -he? You betcher neck he did. Did he get it staged? No, you betcher boots -he didn’t. Don’t talk to me; I know.” - -By his manner you would have thought he had a standing bone to pick with -Peter, but this was only his way. It made me laugh. - -“Well, the play’s the first thing to worry about anyhow,” I observed. “I -wish I were in a position to write one.” - -“Why don’t you try?” suggested McCord. “You ought to be able to do -something in that line. I bet you could write a good one.” - -We fell to discussing dramatists. Peter, with his eye for gorgeous -effects, costuming and the like, immediately began to describe the -ballet effects and scenery of a comic opera laid in Algeria which was -then playing in St. Louis. - -“You ought to go and see that, Dreiser,” he urged. “It’s something -wonderful. The effect of the balconies in the first act, with the -muezzins crying the prayers from the towers in the distance, is great. -Then the harmony of the color work in the stones of the buildings is -something exquisite. You want to see it.” - -I felt myself glowing. This intimate conversation with men of such -marked artistic ability, in a room, too, which was the reflection of an -artist’s personality, raised my sense of latent ability to the highest -point. Not that I felt I was not fit to associate with these people—I -felt that I was more than fit, their equal at every point, conceal it as -I might—but it was something to come in touch with your own, to find -real friends to the manner born who were your equals and able to -sympathize with you and appreciate your every mood. A man who had found -such friends as these so quickly surely need never worry. - -“I’ll tell you what I propose to do, Peter, while you people are -talking,” observed Dick. “I propose to go over to Frank’s and get a can -of beer. Then I’ll read you that story.” - -This proposal to read a story was new to me; I had not heard Wood had -written one before. I looked at him more keenly, and a little flame of -envy leaped to life in me. To be able to write a short story—or any kind -of a story! - -He went to his wardrobe, whence he extracted a medium-length black cape -of broadcloth, which he threw about his shoulders, and a soft hat which -he drew rakishly over his eyes, then took the tin pail and a piece of -money from a plate, after the best fashion of the artistic romances of -the day, and went out. I gazed admiringly after him, touched by the -romance of it all. That face, waxen, drawn, sensitive, with deep burning -eyes, and that frail body! That cape! That hat! That plate of coins! -Yes, this was Bohemia! I was now a part of that happy middle world which -was superior to wealth and poverty. I was in that serene realm where -moved freely talent, artistic ability, noble thought, ingenious action, -unhampered by conventional thought and conduct. A great man should so -live, an artist certainly. These two could and did do as they pleased. -They were not as others, but wise, sensitive, delicately responsive to -all that was best in life; and as yet the great world was not aware of -their existence! - -Wood came back with the beer and then Peter insisted that he read us the -story. I noticed that there was something impish in his manner. He -assured me that all of Dick’s stories were masterpieces, every one; that -time alone was required for world-wide recognition. - -Dick picked up a single manuscript from a heap. “I don’t want to inflict -this on you, Dreiser,” he said sweetly and apologetically. “We had -planned to do this before I knew you were coming.” - -“That’s the way he always talks,” put in Peter banteringly. “Dick loves -to stage things. But they’re great stories just the same.” - -I leaned back, prepared to be thrilled. Dick drew up his chair to the -table and adjusted a green-shaded gas lamp close to the table’s edge. He -then unfolded his MS. and began reading in a low, well-modulated, -semi-pathetic voice, which seemed very effective in the more sentimental -passages. Reverently I sat and listened. The tale was nothing, a mere -daub, but, oh, the wonder of it! Was I not in the presence and -friendship of artists? Was not this Bohemia? Had I not long heard and -dreamed of it? Well, then, what difference whether the tales were good -or bad? They were by one whom I was compelled to admire, an artist, -pale, sensitive, recessive, one who at the slightest show of inattention -or lack of appreciation might leave me and never see me more. - -I listened to about nine without dying, declaring each and every one to -be the best I had ever heard—perfect. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV - - -FROM now on, because of this companionship, my life in St. Louis took on -a much more cheerful aspect. Hitherto, in spite of my work and my -natural interest in a strange city, I had had intensely gloomy moments. -My favorite pastime, when I was not out on an assignment or otherwise -busy, was to walk the streets and view the lives and activities of -others, not thinking so much how I might advantage myself and my affairs -as how, for some, the lightning of chance was always striking in -somewhere and disrupting plans, leaving destruction and death in its -wake, for others luck or fortune. I never was blinded to the gross -favoritism practiced by nature, and this I resented largely, it may be, -because it was not, or I thought it was not, practiced in my behalf. -Later in life I began to suspect that a gross favoritism, in regard to -certain things at least, was being practiced in my behalf. I was never -without friends, never without some one to do me a good turn at a -critical moment, never without love and the sacrifice of beauty on the -part of some one in my behalf, never without a certain amount of -applause or repute. Was I worthy of it? I knew I was not and I felt that -the powers that make and control life did not care two whoops whether I -was or not. - -Life, as I had seen and felt from my earliest thinking period, used -people, sometimes to their advantage, sometimes not. Occasionally, as I -could see, I was used to my advantage as well as to that of some one or -something else. Occasionally I was used, as I thought, to my -disadvantage. Now and then when I imagined I was being used most -disadvantageously it was not so at all, as when for a period I found -myself unable to write and so compelled to turn to other things—a -turning which resulted in better material later on. At this time, -however, I felt that whatever the quality of the gifts handed me or the -favors done me, they were as nothing compared to some; and, again, I was -honestly and sympathetically interested in the horrible deprivations -inflicted upon others, their weaknesses of mind and body, afflictions of -all sizes and sorts, the way so often they helplessly blundered or were -driven by internal chemic fires, as in the case of the fascinating and -beautiful-minded John T. McEnnis, to their own undoing. That great -idealistic soul, that warm, ebullient heart! - -The opportunity for indulging in these moods was due to the fact that I -had plenty of time on my hands, that just at this time I was more -interested in seeing than in reading, and that the three principal -hotels here, Southern-fashion, were most hospitable, equipping their -lobbies and even their flanking sidewalks with comfortable -rocking-chairs where one might sit and dream or read or view the passing -scene with idle or analytic eye. My favorite hotel was the Lindell, -rather large and not impressive but still successful and popular, which -stood at the northwest corner of Sixth and Washington Avenue. Here I -would repair whenever I had a little time and rock in peace and watch -the crowd of strangers amble to and fro. The manager of this hotel, a -brisk, rather interesting and yet job-centered American, seeing me sit -about every afternoon between four-thirty and six and knowing that I was -from the _Globe_, finally began to greet me and ask occasionally if I -did not want to go up to dinner. (How lonely and forlorn I must have -looked!) On Thanksgiving and Christmas afternoons of this my first -season there, seeing me idle and alone, he asked me to be his guest. I -accepted, not knowing what else to do. To make it seem like a real -invitation he came in after I was seated at the table and sat down with -me for a few minutes. He was so charming and the hotel so brisk and -crowded that I soon felt at home. - -The daily routine of my work seemed to provide ample proof of my -suspicions that life was grim and sad. Regularly it would be a murder, a -suicide, a failure, a defalcation which I would be assigned to cover, -and on the same day there would be an important wedding, a business or -political banquet, a ball or a club entertainment of some kind, which -would provide just the necessary contrast to prove that life is -haphazard and casual and cruel; to some lavish, to others niggardly. - -Mere money, often unworthily inherited or made by shabby methods, seemed -to throw commonplace and even wretched souls into such glittering and -condescending prominence, in this world at least. Many of the business -men with whom I came in contact were vulgarians, their wives and -daughters vain and coarse and inconsiderate. I was constantly impressed -by the airs of the locally prominent, their craving for show and -pleasure, their insane greed for personal mention, their hearty -indifference to anything except money plus a keen wish to seem to -despise it. I remember going one afternoon to an imposing residence -where some function was in progress. I was met by an ostentatious butler -who exclaimed most nobly: “My dear sir, who sent you here? The _Globe_ -knows we never give lists to newspaper men. We never admit reporters,” -and then stiffly closed the door on me. I reported as much to the city -editor, who remarked meekly, “Well, that’s all right,” and gave me -something else to do. But the next day a list of the guests at this -function was published, and in this paper. I made inquiry of Hartung, -who said: “Oh, the society editor must have turned that in. These -society women send in their lists beforehand and then say they don’t -receive reporters.” - -Another time it was the residence of the Catholic archbishop of St. -Louis, a very old but shrewd man whom, so it was rumored in newspaper -circles, the local priests were plotting to make appear infirm and -weakminded in order that a favorite of theirs might be made coadjutor. I -was sent to inquire about his health, to see him if possible. At the -door I was met by a sleek dark priest who inquired what I wished, -whereupon he assured me that the archbishop was too feeble to be seen. - -“That is exactly why I am here,” I insisted. “The _Globe_ wishes to -inform the public of his exact condition. There seems to be a belief on -the part of some that he is not as ill as is given out.” - -“What! You accuse us of concealing something in connection with the -archbishop! This is outrageous!” and he firmly shut me out. - -It seemed to me that the straightforward thing would have been to let me -meet the archbishop. He was a public official, the state of whose health -was of interest to thousands. But no; official control regulated that. -Shortly afterward he was declared too feeble to perform his duties and a -coadjutor was appointed. - -Again I was sent to a fashionable west end hotel to interview a visiting -governor who was attending a reception of some kind and who, as we -understood, was leaving the next day. - -“My dear young fellow,” said a functionary connected with the -entertainment committee, “you cannot do anything of the sort. This is no -time to be coming around for anything of this kind.” - -“But he is leaving tomorrow....” - -“I cannot help that. You cannot see him now.” - -“How about taking him my card and asking him about tomorrow?” - -“No, no, no! I cannot do anything of the sort. You cannot see him,” and -once again I was shunted briskly forth. - -I recall being sent one evening to attend a great public ball of some -kind—The Veiled Prophets—which was held in the general selling-room of -the stock exchange at Third and Walnut, and which followed as a rule -some huge autumnal parade. The city editor sent me for a general view or -introduction or pen picture to be used as a lead to the full story, -which was to be done by others piecemeal. For this occasion I was -ordered to hire a dress-suit (the first I had ever worn), which cost the -paper three dollars. I remember being greatly disturbed by my appearance -once I got in it and feeling very queer and conspicuous. I was greatly -troubled as to what sort of impression my garb would make on the various -members of the staff. As to the latter I was not long in doubt. - -“Say, look at our friend in the claw-hammer, will you?” this from -Hazard. “He looks like a real society man to me!” - -“Usher, you mean,” called Bellairs. “Who is he? I don’t seem to remember -him.” - -“Those pants come darned near being a fit, don’t they?” this from some -one who had laid hold of the side lines of the trousers. - -I could not make up my mind whether I wanted to fight or laugh or -whether I was startlingly handsome or a howling freak. - -But the thing that weighed on me most was the luxury, tawdry enough -perhaps to those intimately connected with it, which this ball -presented, contrasted with my own ignoble state. After spending three -hours there bustling about examining flowers, decorations, getting -names, details of costumes, and drinking various drinks with officiating -floormasters whose sole duty appeared to be to look after the press and -see that they got all details straight, I returned to the office and -began to pour forth a glowing account of how beautiful it all was, how -gorgeous, how perfect the women, how marvelous their costumes, how -gracious and graceful the men, how oriental or occidental or Arabic, I -forget which, were the decorations, outdoing the Arabian Nights or the -fabled splendors of the Caliphate. Who does not recognize this -indiscriminate newspaper tosh, poured forth from one end of America to -another for everything from a farmers’ reunion or an I. O. O. F. Ladies’ -Day to an Astor or a Vanderbilt wedding? - -As I was writing, my head whirring with the imaginary and impossible -splendors of the occasion, I was informed by my city editor that when I -was done I should go to a number in South St. Louis where only an hour -before a triple or quadruple murder had been committed. I was to go out -on a street-car and if I could not get back in time by street-car I was -to get a carriage and drive back at breakneck speed in order to get the -story into the last edition. The great fear was that the rival paper, -the _Republic_, would get it or might already have it and we would not. -And so, my head full of pearls, diamonds, silks, satins, laces, a world -of flowers and lights, I was now hustled out along the dark, shabby, -lonely streets of South St. Louis to the humblest of cottages, in the -humblest of streets where, among unpainted shacks with lean-tos at the -back for kitchens, was one which contained this story. - -An Irish policeman, silent and indifferent, was already at the small -dark gate in the dark and silent street, guarding it against intruders; -another was inside the door, which stood partially open, and beyond in -the roadway in the darkness, their faces all but indistinguishable, a -few horrified people. A word of explanation and I was admitted. A faint -glow from a small smoky glass lamp illuminated the front room darkly. It -turned out that a very honest, simple, religious and good-natured -Irish-American of about fifty, who had been working by the day in this -neighborhood, had recently been taken ill with brain fever and had on -this night arisen from his feverish sickbed, seized a flatiron, crept -into the front room where his wife and two little children slept and -brained all three. He had then returned to the rear room, where a grown -daughter slept on a couch beside him, and had first felled her with the -iron and then cut her throat with a butcher knife. Murderous as the deed -seemed, and apparently premeditated, it was the result of fever. The -policeman at the gate informed me that the father had already been taken -to the Four Courts and that a hospital ambulance was due any moment. - -“But he’s out av his mind,” he insisted blandly. “He’s crazy, sure, or -sick av the fever. No man in his right sinses would do that. I tried to -taalk to him but he couldn’t say naathin’, just mumble like.” - -After my grand ball this wretched front room presented a sad and ghastly -contrast. The house and furniture were very poor, the dead wife and -children homely and seemingly work-worn. I noticed the dim, smoky flame -cast by the lamp, the cheap bed awry and stained red, the mother and two -children lying in limp and painful disorder, the bedding dragged half -off. It was evident that a struggle had taken place, for a chair and -table were upset, the ironing-board thrown down, a bureau and the bed -pushed sidewise. - -Shocked beyond measure, yet with an eye to color and to the zest of the -public for picturesque details, I examined the three rooms with care, -the officer in the house following me. Together we looked at the -utensils in the kitchen, what was in the cupboard to eat, what in the -closet to wear. I made notes of the contents of the rooms, their -cheapness, then went to the neighbors on either hand to learn if they -had heard anything. Then in a stray owl-car, no carriages being -available, I hurried to the Four Courts, several miles cityward, to see -the criminal. I found him, old, pale, sick, thin, walking up and down in -his small iron cell, plainly out of his mind, a picture of hopeless, -unconscious misery. His hands trembled idly about his mouth; his shabby -trousers bagged about his shoes; he was unshaven and weak-looking, and -all the while he mumbled to himself some unintelligible sounds. I tried -to talk with him but could get nothing. He seemed not even to know that -I was there, so brain-sick was he. Then I questioned the jail -attendants, those dull wiseacres of the law. Had he talked? Did they -think he was sane? With the usual acumen and delicacy of this tribe, -they were inclined to think he was shamming. - -I hurried through dark streets to the office. It was an almost empty -reportorial room in which I scribbled my dolorous picture. With the -impetuosity of youth and curiosity and sorrow and wonder I told it all, -the terror, the pity, the inexplicability. As I wrote, each page was -taken up by Hartung, edited and sent up. Then, having done perhaps a -column and a half (Bellairs having arrived with various police -theories), I was allowed finally to amble out into a dark street and -seek my miserable little room with its creaky bed, its dirty coverlets, -its ragged carpets and stained walls. Nevertheless, I lay down with a -kind of high pride and satisfaction in my story of the murder and my -description of the ball, and with my life in consequence! I was not so -bad. I was getting along. I must be thought an exceptional man to be -picked for two such difficult tasks in the same evening. Life itself was -not so bad; it was just higgledy-piggledy, catch-as-catch-can, that was -all. If one were clever, like myself, it was all right. Next morning, -when I reached the office, McCord and Hazard and some others pronounced -my stuff “pretty good,” and I was beside myself with glee. I strolled -about as though I owned the earth, pretending simplicity and humility -but actually believing that I was the finest ever, that no one could -outdo me at this game of reporting. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXV - - -THINGS relatively interesting, contrasts nearly as sharp and as well -calculated to cause one to meditate on the wonder, the beauty, the -uncertainty, the indifference, the cruelty and the rank favoritism of -life, were daily if not hourly put before me. Now it would be some such -murder as this or a social scandal of some kind, often of a gross and -revolting character, in some ultra-respectable neighborhood, or a -suicide of peculiarly sad or grim character. Or, again, it would be a -fine piece of chicane, as when a certain “board-and-feed” stable owner -of the west end, about to lose his property because of poor business and -anxious to save himself by securing the insurance, set fire to the -stable and destroyed seventeen healthy horses as well as one stable -attendant and “got away with it,” legally anyhow. His plan had probably -been to save the horses and the man, but the plan miscarried. I gathered -as much from him when I interviewed him. I put some pertinent questions -at him but could get no admissions on which to base a charge. He was a -shrewd, calculating, commercial type, vigorous and semi-savage. He -evaded me blandly and I had to write the fire up as a sad accident, -thereby aiding him to get his insurance, the while I was convinced that -he was guilty, a hard-hearted scoundrel. - -Another thing that I sensed very clearly at this time was the fact that -the average newspaper reporter was a far better detective in his way -than the legitimate official detective, and not nearly so well paid. The -average so-called “headquarters man,” was a loathsome thing, as low in -his ideas and methods as the lowest criminal he was set to trap. The -criminal was at least shrewd and dynamic enough to plot and execute a -crime, whereas the detective had no brains at all, merely a low kind of -cunning. Often red-headed, freckled, with big hands and feet, store -clothes, squeaky shoes—why does such a picture of the detective come -back to me? Pop-eyed, with a ridiculous air of mystery and profundity in -matters requiring neither, dirty, offensive, fish-eyed and merciless, -the detectives floundered about in different cases without a grain of -humor; whereas the average reporter was, by contrast anyhow, intelligent -or shrewd, cleanly nearly always, if at times a little slouchy, inclined -to drink and sport perhaps but genial, often gentlemanly, a fascinating -story-teller, a keen psychologist (nearly always one of the best), -frequently well read, humorous, sympathetic, amusing or gloomy as the -case might be, but generally to be relied upon in such emergencies for -truly skillful work. Naturally there was some enmity between the two, a -contempt on the part of the newspaper man for the detective, a fear and -dislike and secret opposition on the part of the detective. The reporter -would go forth on a mystifying case and as a rule, given time enough, -would solve it, whereas the police detectives would be tramping about -often trailing the reporters, reading the newspapers to discover what -had been discovered, and then, when the work had been done and the true -clew furnished, would step forward at the grand moment to do the -arresting and get their pictures and names in the papers. The detectives -were constantly playing into the hands of the police reporters in -unimportant matters during periods between great cases, doing them -little favors, helping them in small cases, in order that when a big -case came along they might have favors done unto them. The most -important of all these favors, of course, was that of seeing that their -names were mentioned in the papers as being engaged in solving a mystery -or having done thus and so, when in all likelihood some newspaper man -had done it. - -Sometimes the tip as to where the criminal was likely to be found would -be furnished by the papers and later credited to the police. Sometimes -the newspaper men would lash the police, sometimes flatter them, but -always they were seeking to make the police aid them to get various -necessary things done, and not always succeeding. Sometimes the police -were hand-in-glove with certain crooks or evil-doers, and you could all -but prove it, but until you did so, and sometimes afterward, they were -stubborn and would defy you and the papers. But not for long. They loved -publicity too much; offer them sufficient publicity, and they would act. -It was nearly always my experience that the newspapers, which meant the -reporters of course plus an efficient city editor and possibly a -managing editor, would be the first to worm out the psychology of any -given case and then point an almost unerring finger at the criminal; -then the police or detectives would come in and do the arresting and get -the credit. - -Another thing that impressed me greatly at this time was the -kaleidoscopic character of newspaper work, which, in its personal -significance to me, cannot be too much emphasized. As I have said, one -day it would be a crime of a lurid or sensational character that would -arrest and compel me to think, and the same day, within the hour -perhaps, it would be a lecturer or religionist with some finespun theory -of life, some theosophist like Annie Besant, who in passing through St. -Louis on a lecture tour would be at one of the best hotels, usually the -Southern, talking transmigration and Nirvana. Again, it would be some -mountebank or quack of a low order—a spiritualist, let us say, of the -Eva Fay stripe, or a mindreader like Bishop, or a third-rate religionist -like the Reverend Sam Jones, who was then in his heyday preaching -unadulterated hell, or the arrival of a prize-fighter-actor like John L. -Sullivan, then only recently defeated by Corbett, or a novelist of the -quack order, such as Hall Caine. - -And there were distinguished individuals, including such excellent -lecturers as Henry Watterson and Henry M. Stanley, or a musician like -Paderewski, or a scientist of the standing of Nikola Tesla. I was sent -to interview my share of these, to get their views on something—anything -or nothing really, for my city editor, Mr. Mitchell, seemed at times a -little cloudy as to their significance, and certainly I had no clear -insight into What most of them stood for. I wondered, guessed, made -vague stabs at what I thought they represented, and in the main took -them seriously enough. My favorite question was What did they think of -life, its meaning, since this was uppermost in my mind at the time, and -I think I asked it of every one of them, from John L. Sullivan to Annie -Besant. And what a jangle of doctrines! What a noble burst of ideas! -Annie Besant, in a room at the Southern delicately scented with flowers, -arrayed in a cool silken gray dress, informed me that the age was -material, that wealth and show were an illusion based on nothing at all -(I wrote that down without understanding what she meant), that the Hindu -Swamis had long since solved all this seeming mystery of living, Madame -Blavatsky being the most recent and the greatest apostle of wisdom in -this matter, and that the great thing to do in this world or the next -was to improve oneself spiritually and so eventually attain to Nirvana, -nothingness—a word I had to look up afterward. (When I told Dick Wood -about her he seemed greatly impressed and said: “Oh, there’s more to -that stuff than you think, Dreiser. You’re just not up on all that yet. -These mystics see more than we think they do,” and he looked very wise.) - -And Henry Watterson—imagine me at the age of twenty-one trying to -interview him when he was in the heyday of his fame and mental powers! -Short, stocky, with a protuberant belly, slightly gray hair, gruff and -simple in his manner and joyously secure in his fame (he had just the -preceding summer said that Cleveland, Democratic candidate of the hour -and later elected, was certain to “walk up an alley to a slaughter-house -and an open grave,” and had of course seen his prediction fail), he was -convinced that the country was in bad hands, not likely to go to the -“demnition bow-wows” as yet but in for a bad corporation-materialistic -spell. And when I asked _him_ what he thought of life—— - -“My son, when you get as old as I am you probably won’t think so much of -it, and you won’t be to blame. It’s good enough in its way, but it’s a -damned ticklish business. You may say that Henry Watterson said that if -you like. Do the best you can, and don’t crowd the other fellow too -hard, and you’ll come out as well as anybody, I suppose.” - -And then John L. Sullivan, raw, red-faced, big-fisted, broad-shouldered, -drunken, with gaudy waistcoat and tie, and rings and pins set with -enormous diamonds and rubies—what an impression he made! Surrounded by -local sports and politicians of the most rubicund and degraded character -(he was a great favorite with them), he seemed to me, sitting in his -suite at the Lindell, to be the apotheosis of the humorously gross and -vigorous and material. Cigar boxes, champagne buckets, decanters, beer -bottles, overcoats, collars and shirts littered the floor, and lolling -back in the midst of it all in ease and splendor his very great self, a -sort of prizefighting J. P. Morgan. - -“Aw, haw! haw! haw!” I can hear him even now when I asked him my -favorite question about life, his plans, the value of exercise (!), etc. -“He wants to know about exercise! You’re all right, young fella, kinda -slim, but you’ll do. Sit down and have some champagne. Have a cigar. -Give ‘im some cigars, George. These young newspaper men are all all -right to me. I’m for ’em. Exercise? What I think? Haw! haw! Write any -damned thing yuh please, young fella, and say that John L. Sullivan said -so. That’s good enough for me. If they don’t believe it bring it back -here and I’ll sign it for yuh. But I know it’ll be all right, and I -won’t stop to read it neither. That suit yuh? Well, all right. Now have -some more champagne and don’t say I didn’t treat yuh right, ’cause I -did. I’m ex-champion of the world, defeated by that little dude from -California, but I’m still John L. Sullivan—ain’t that right? Haw! haw! -They can’t take that away from me, can they? Haw! haw! Have some more -champagne, boy.” - -I adored him. I would have written anything he asked me to write. I got -up the very best article I could and published it, and was told -afterward that it was fine. - -Another thing that interested me about newspaper work was its pagan or -unmoral character, as contrasted with the heavy religionistic and -moralistic point of view seemingly prevailing in the editorial office -proper (the editorial page, of course), as well as the world outside. -While the editorial office might be preparing the most flowery -moralistic or religionistic editorials regarding the worth of man, the -value of progress, character, religion, morality, the sanctity of the -home, charity and the like, the business office and news rooms were -concerned with no such fine theories. The business office was all -business, with little or no thought of anything save success, and in the -city news room the mask was off and life was handled in a -rough-and-ready manner, without gloves and in a catch-as-catch-can -fashion. Pretense did not go here. Innate honesty on the part of any one -was not probable. Charity was a business with something in it for -somebody. Morality was in the main for public consumption only. “Get the -news! Get the news!”—that was the great cry in the city editorial room. -“Don’t worry much over how you get it, but get it, and don’t come back -without it! Don’t fall down! Don’t let the other newspapers skin us—that -is, if you value your job! And write—and write well. If any other paper -writes it better than you do you’re beaten and might as well resign.” -The public must be entertained by the writing of reporters. - -But the methods and the effrontery and the callousness necessary at -times for the gathering of news—what a shock even though one realized -that it was conditional with life itself! At most times one needed to be -hard, cold, jesuitical. For instance, one of the problems that troubled -me most, and to which there was no solution save to act jesuitically or -get out, was how to get the facts from a man or woman suspected of some -misdeed or error without letting him know that you were so doing. In the -main, if you wanted facts of any kind, especially in connection with the -suspected, you did not dare tell them that you came as an enemy or were -bent on exposing them. One had to approach all, even the worst and most -degraded, as a friend and pretend an interest, perhaps even a sympathy -one did not feel, to apply the oil of flattery to the soul. To do less -than this was to lose the news, and while a city editor might readily -forgive any form of trickery he would never forgive failure. Cheat and -win and you were all right; be honest and lose and you were fired. To -appear wise when you were ignorant, dull when you were not, -disinterested when you were interested, brutal or severe when you might -be just the reverse—these were the essential tricks of the trade. - -And I, being sent out every day and loafing about the corridors of the -various hotels at different times, soon encountered other newspaper men -who were as shrewd and wily as ferrets, who had apparently but one -motive in life: to trim their fellow newspaper men in the matter of -news, or the public which provided the news. There being only two -morning papers here (the _Globe_ and the _Republic_), the reporters of -each loved the others not, even when personally they were inclined to be -friendly. They did not dare permit their personal likes to affect their -work. It was every man for himself. Meet a reporter of the _Republic_ or -the _Globe_ on a story: he might be friendly enough but he would tell -you nothing. He wished either to shun you or worm your facts out of you. -Meet him in the lobby of the La Clede, where by common consent, winter -or summer, most seemed to gather, or at the corner drugstore outside, -and each would be friendly with the other, trading tales of life, going -together to a saloon for a drink or to the “beanery,” a famous -eating-place on Chestnut between Fourth and Broadway, perhaps borrowing -a dime, a quarter or a dollar until pay day—but never repaying with news -or tips; quite the reverse, as I soon found. One had to keep an -absolutely close mouth as to all one might be doing. - -The counsel of all of these men was to get the news in any way possible, -by hook or by crook, and to lose no time in theorizing about it. If a -document was lying on an official’s table, for instance, and you wanted -to see it and could not persuade him to give it to you—well, if he -turned his back it was good business to take it, or at least read it. If -a photograph was desired and the one concerned would not give it and you -saw it somewhere, take it of course and let them complain afterward if -they would; your city editor was supposed to protect you in such -matters. You might know of certain conditions of which a public official -was not aware and the knowledge of which would cause him to talk in one -way, whereas lack of that knowledge would cause him to talk in another. -Personally you might think it your duty to tell him, but as a newspaper -man you could not. It was your duty to your paper to sacrifice him. If -you didn’t some one else would. I was not long in learning all this and -more, and although I understood the necessity I sometimes resented -having to do it. There were times when I wanted to treat people better -than I did or could. Sometimes I told myself that I was better in this -respect than other newspaper men; but when the test came I found that I -was like the others, as eager to get the news. Something akin to a dog’s -lust of the chase would in critical moments seize upon me and in my -eagerness to win a newspaper battle I would forget or ignore nearly -every tenet of fairness and get it. Then, victorious, I might sigh over -the sadness of it all and decide that I was going to get out of the -business—as I eventually did, and for very much this reason—but at the -time I was weak or practical enough. - -One afternoon I was sent to interview the current Democratic candidate -for mayor, an amiable soul who conducted a wholesale harness business -and who was supposed to have an excellent chance of being elected. The -city had long been sick of Republican misrule, or so our office seemed -to think. When I entered his place he was in the front part of the store -discussing with several friends or politicians the character of St. -Louis, its political and social backwardness, its narrowness, slowness -and the like, and for some reason, possibly due to the personality of -his friends, he was very severe. Local religionists, among others, came -in for a good drubbing. I did not know him but for some unexplainable -reason I assumed at once that the man talking was the candidate. Again, -I instinctively knew that if what he was saying were published it would -create a sensation. The lust of the hunter stalking a wild animal -immediately took possession of me. What a beat, to take down what this -man was saying! What a stir it would make! Without seeming to want -anything in particular, I stood by a showcase and examined the articles -within. Soon he finished his tirade and came to me. - -“Well, sir?” - -“I’m from the _Globe_,” I said. “I want to ask you——” and I asked him -some questions. - -When he heard that I was from the _Globe_ he became visibly excited. - -“Did you hear what I was saying just now?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Well, you know that I was not speaking for publication....” - -“Yes, I know.” - -“And you’re not to forget that.” - -“I understand.” - -Just the same I returned to the office and wrote up the incident just as -it had occurred. My city editor took it, glanced over it, and departed -for the front office. I could tell by his manner that he was excited. -The next day it was published in all its crude reality, and the man was -ruined politically. There were furious denials in the rival Democratic -papers. A lying reporter was denounced, not only by Mr. Bannerman, the -candidate, but by all the other papers editorially. At once I was called -to the front office to explain to Mr. McCullagh, which I did in detail. -“He said it all, did he?” he asked, and I insisted that he had. “I know -it’s true,” he said, “for other people have told me that he has said the -same things before.” - -Next day there was a defiant editorial in the _Globe_ defending me, my -truthfulness, the fact that the truth of the interview was substantiated -by previous words and deeds of the candidate. Various editors on the -paper came forward to congratulate me, to tell me what a beat I had -made; but to tell the truth I felt shamefaced, dishonest, unkind. I was -an eavesdropper. I had taken an unfair advantage, and I knew it. Still, -something in me made me feel that I was fortunate. As a reporter I had -done the paper a great service. My editor-in-chief, as I could see, -appreciated it. No other immediate personal reward came to me, but I -felt that I had strengthened my standing here a little. Yet for that I -had killed that man politically. Youth, zest, life, the love of the -chase—that is all that explains it to me now. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI - - -MY standing as a local newspaper man seemed to grow by leaps and -bounds—I am not exaggerating. Certain almost fortuitous events (how -often they have occurred in my life!) seemed to assist me, far above my -willing or even my dreams. Thus, one morning I had come down to the -_Globe_ city room to get something, a paper or a book I had left, before -going to my late breakfast, when a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a -slouch hat and looking much like the typical Kentucky colonel, hurried -into the office and exclaimed: - -“Is the city editor here?” - -“He isn’t down yet,” I replied. “Anything I can do for you?” - -“I just stopped to tell you there’s a big wreck on the road up here near -Alton. I saw it from the train as I passed coming down from Chicago. A -half dozen cars are burning. If you people get a man up there right away -you can get a big lead on this.” - -I grabbed a piece of paper, for I felt instinctively that this was -important. Some one ought to attend to it right away. I looked around to -see if there was any one to appeal to, but there was no one. - -“What did you say the name of the place was?” I inquired. - -“Wann,” relied the stranger, “right near Alton. You can’t miss it. -Better get somebody up there quick. I think it’s something big. I know -how important these things are to you newspaper boys: I used to be one -myself, and I owe the _Globe_ a few good turns anyhow.” He smiled and -bustled out. - -I did not wait to see the city editor. I felt that I was taking a big -risk, going out without orders, but I also felt that something terrible -had happened and that the occasion warranted it. I had never seen a big -wreck. It must be wonderful. The newspapers always gave them so much -space. I wrote a note to the city editor explaining that the wreck was -reported to be a great one and added that I felt it to be my duty to go -at once. Perhaps he had better send an artist after me—imagine me -advising him! - -On the way to the depot I thought of what I must do: telegraph for an -artist if the wreck was really important, and then get my story and get -back. It was over an hour’s run. I got off at the nearest station to the -wreck and, walked the remaining distance, which was a little more than a -mile. As I neared it I saw a crowd of people gathered about what was -evidently the smoldering embers of a train, and on the same track, not -more than a hundred feet away, were three oil-tank cars, those evidently -into which the passenger train had crashed. These cars were also -surrounded by a crowd, citizens of nearby towns, as it proved, who were -staring at them as the fire blazed about them. As I learned later, a -fourth oil-tank car had been smashed and the contents had poured out -about these others of the oil group as well as the passenger train -itself. The oil had taken fire and consumed the train, although no -people were killed. - -The significance of the scene had not yet quite dawned upon me, however, -when for the second time in my life I was privileged to behold one of -those terrible catastrophes which it is given to few of us to see. The -oil-tank cars about which the crowd was gathered, having become -overheated by the burning oil beneath, exploded all at once with a -muffled report which to me (I was no more than fifteen hundred feet -away) sounded like a deep breath exhaled by some powerful man. The earth -trembled, the heavens instantly appeared to be surcharged with flame. -The crowd, which only a moment before I had seen solidly massed about -the cars, was now hurled back in confusion, and I beheld men running, -some toward me, some from me, their bodies on fire or being momentarily -ignited. I saw flames descending toward me, long, red, licking things, -and realizing the danger I turned and in a panic ran as fast as I could, -never stopping until I deemed myself at a safe distance. Then I halted -and gazed back, hearing at the same time a chorus of pitiful wails and -screams which tore my heart. - -Death is here, I said to myself. I am witnessing a real tragedy, a -horror. The part of the great mysterious force which makes and unmakes -our visible scene is here and now magnificently operative. But, first of -all, I was a newspaper man; I must report this, run to it, not away. - -I saw dashing toward me a man whose face I could not make out clearly, -for at times it was partially covered by his hands, which seemed aflame, -at other times the hands waved in the air like flails, and were burning. -His body was being consumed by a rosy flame which partially enveloped -him. His face, whenever it became visible as he moved his hands to and -fro, was screwed into a horrible grimace. Unconscious of me as he ran, -he dashed like a fiery force to the low ditch which paralleled the -railroad, where he rolled and twisted like a worm. - -I could scarcely believe my eyes or my senses. My hair rose on end. My -hands twitched convulsively. I ran forward, pulling off my coat, and -threw it over him to smother the spots of flame—but it was of no use—my -coat began to burn. With my bare hands I tore grass and earth from the -ditch and piled them upon the sufferer. For the moment I was beside -myself with terror and misery and grief. Tears came to my eyes and I -choked with the sense of helpless misery. When I saw my own coat burning -I snatched it away and stamped the fire out. - -The man was burned beyond recovery. The oil had evidently fallen in a -mass upon the back of his head and shoulders and back and legs. It had -burnt his clothes and hair and cooked the skin. His hands were scorched -black, as well as his neck and ears and face. Finally he ceased to -struggle and lay still, groaning heavily but unconscious. He was alive, -but that was all. - -Oppressed by the horror of it I looked about for help, but seeing many -others in the same plight I realized the futility of further labor here. -I could do nothing more. I had stopped the flames in part, the man’s -rolling in the ditch had done the rest, but to what end! Hope of life -was ridiculous, I could see that plainly. I turned, like a soldier in -battle, and looked after the rest of the people. - -To this hour I can see it all—some running over the fields in the -distance away from the now entirely exploded tanks, others approaching -the fallen victims. A house a little beyond the wreck was burning. A -small village, not a thousand feet away, was blazing in spots, bits of -oil having fallen upon the roofs. People were running hither and thither -like ants, bending over and examining prostrate forms. - -My first idea of course when I recovered my senses was that I must get -in touch with my newspaper and get it to send an artist—Wood, if -possible—and then get the news. These people here would do as much for -the injured as I could. Why waste my newspaper’s time on them? I ran to -a little road-crossing telegraph station a few hundred feet farther on -where I asked the agent what was being done. - -“I’ve sent for a wreck-train,” he replied excitedly. “I’ve telegraphed -the Alton General Hospital. There ought to be a train and doctor here -pretty soon, any minute now.” He looked at his watch. “What more can I -do?” - -“Have you any idea how many are killed?” - -“I don’t know. You can see for yourself, can’t you?” - -“Will you take a message to the _Globe-Democrat_? I want to send for an -artist.” - -“I can’t be bothered with anything like that now,” he replied roughly. I -felt that an instant antagonism and caution enveloped him. He hurried -away. - -“How am I to do this?” I thought, and then I ran, studying and aiding -with the victims where aid seemed of the slightest use, wondering how I -should ever be able to report all this, and awaiting the arrival of the -hospital and wrecking train. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII - - -IT was not long before the wreck-train arrived, a thing of flat cars, -box-cars and cabooses of an old pattern, with hospital cots made ready -en route, and a number of doctors and nurses who scrambled out with the -air and authority of those used to scenes of this kind. Meanwhile I had -been wondering how long it would be before the wreck-train would arrive -and had set about getting my information before the doctors and -authorities were on the scene, when it might not be so easy. I knew that -names of the injured and their condition were most important, and I ran -from one to another of the groups that had formed here and there over -one dying or dead, asking them who it was, where he lived, what his -occupation was (curiously, there were no women), and how he came to be -at the scene of the wreck. Some, I found, were passengers, some -residents of the nearby village of Wann or Alton who had hurried over to -see the wreck. Most of the passengers had gone on a train provided for -them. - -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 catastrophe 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 mumbled replies, in others merely groans. 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 soothed with a bribe 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 inquiry and I was only too glad that I had thought to -make my inquiries 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 canvass, 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 throng 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 drawn 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 hush 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. - -I decided to not say whether any one was seriously injured. - -“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 gathering 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 depot 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 wrought up over how to illustrate 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 beetles. -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 -shears, revealing the raw muscles beneath. All those dead were stark -naked, men who had been alive and curiously gaping 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 briefly 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 -transcripts 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 realization of my importance set -me up. I wrote with vim, vanity, a fine frenzy. - -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 tickle -Mac, all right. He loves to beat the other Sunday papers.” It was -Saturday night. - -“Tobe’s tickled sick,” confided 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 -humbly 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. - -“Very well,” he replied gruffly. “But don’t overdo it.” - -“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 -feverish 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 -infinitely 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 blotches of weird machinery and queer -figures. He had lost himself in an effort to make a picture of the -original crumpling 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 swelling 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 pathos 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 commiserating 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 justified the opinion of the -editor-in-chief in sending for me. - -Bursting with vanity, I returned to Alton. Despite the woes 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 -anonymous, 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 exulted. This -was the chance, apparently, that I had been longing 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 afflicted, 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 -follies 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 -haughty spirit before a fall.” - -By eight o’clock, when I reached the office, I was thoroughly depressed -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 glum. -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 retired 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 nervously 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 obstructed 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, awed by this generosity. - -“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 mumblingly, “a good piece of -work,” and then slowly wheeled back to his desk. - -I turned and walked briskly out. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII - - -THE fact that I had gained the notice of a man as important as -McCullagh, a man about whom a contemporaneous poet had written a poem, -was almost more than I could stand. I walked on air. Yet the next -morning, returning to work, I found myself listed for only “Hotels” and -“Heard in the Corridors,” my usual tasks, and was depressed. Why not -great tasks always? Why not noble hours always? Yet once I had recovered -from this I walked about the downtown streets convulsively digging my -fingers into my palms and shaking myself with delight as I thought of -Saturday, Sunday and Monday. That was something worth talking about. Now -I was a real newspaper man. I had beaten the whole town, and in a new -city, a city strange to me! - -Having practically nothing to do and my excitement cooling some, I -returned to the art department this same day to report on what had -happened. By now I was so set up that I could scarcely conceal my -delight and told both volubly, not only about my raise in salary but -also that I had been given a twenty-dollar bill by McCullagh himself—an -amazing thing, of course. This last was received with mingled feelings -by the department: McCord was pleased, of course, but Dick naturally was -inclined to be glum. He was conscious of the fact that his drawings were -not good, and McCord had been twitting him about them. Dick admitted it -frankly, saying that he had not been able to collect himself. “You know -I can’t do those things very well and I shouldn’t have been sent out on -it. That’s Mitchell for you!” Perhaps it angered him to think that he -should have been so unfortunate at the very time that I should have been -so signally rewarded; anyhow he did not show anything save a generous -side to me at the time although latterly I felt that it was the -beginning of a renewal of that slight hostility based on his original -opposition to me. He complimented me, saying: “You’ve done it this time. -I’m glad you’ve made a hit, old man.” - -That night, however, I was not invited to his room, as I had hoped I -should be, although he and Peter went off somewhere—to his room, as I -assumed. I applied myself instead to “Heard in the Corridors.” Then the -days settled down into their old routine for me—petty assignments, minor -contrasts between one thing and another. Only one thing held me up, and -that was that Hazard now urged me to do a novel with him, a thing which -flattered me so much that I felt my career as a great writer was at -hand. For had he not done a novel already? I considered it seriously for -a few days, arguing the details of the plot with him at the office and -after hours, but it came to nothing. Plays rather than novels, as I -fancied for some reason, were more in my line, and poems—things which I -thought easier to do. Since writing that first poem a month or so before -I was busy now from time to time scribbling down the most mediocre -jingles relative to my depressions and dreams, and imaging them to be -great verse. Truly, I thought I was to be a great poet, one of the very -greatest, and so nothing else really mattered for the time being. -Weren’t poets always lone and lorn, as I was? - -It was about this time too that, having received the gift of twenty and -the raise of five, I began to array myself in manner so ultra-smart, as -I thought, but fantastic, really, that I grieve to think that I should -ever have been such a fool. Yet to tell the truth, I do not know whether -I do or not. A foolish boyhood is as delightful as any. I had now moved -into Tenth Street, and fortunately or unfortunately for me (fortunately, -I now think) a change in the personnel of the _Globe’s_ editorial staff -occurred which had a direct bearing upon my ambitions. A man by the name -of Carmichael who did the dramatics on the paper had been called to a -better position in Chicago, and the position he had occupied here was -therefore temporarily vacant. Hazard was the logical man for the place -and should have had it because he had held this position before. He was -older and a much better critic. But I, as may be imagined, was in a very -appropriate mood for this, having recently been thinking of writing a -play, and besides, I was crazy for advancement of any kind. Accordingly -the moment I heard of it I was on the alert, eager to make a plea for -myself and yet not dreaming that I should ever get it. My sole -qualification, as I see it now, was that I was an ardent admirer of the -stage and one who, because of his dramatic instincts (as I conceived -mine to be), ought to make a good enough critic. I did not know that I -was neither old nor cold nor experienced enough to do justice to the art -of any one. Yet I should add in all fairness that for the work here -required—to write a little two-stick announcement of each new play, -mostly favorable, and to prepare a weekly announcement of all the new -performances—I was perhaps not so poorly equipped. At any rate, my -recent triumph had given me such an excellent opinion of myself, had -made me think that I stood so well in the eyes of Mr. McCullagh, that I -decided to try for it. It might not mean any more salary, but think of -the honor of it! Dramatic Editor of the _Globe-Democrat_ of St. Louis! -Ha!... I decided to try. - -There were two drawbacks to this position, as I learned later: one was -that although I might be dramatic editor I should still be under the -domination of Mr. Tobias Mitchell, who ruled this department; the other -was that I should have to do general reporting along with this other -work, a thing which irritated me very much and took much of the savor of -the task away. The department was not deemed important enough to give -any one man complete control of it. It seemed a poor sort of thing to -try for, once I learned of this, but still there would be the fact that -I could still say I was a dramatic editor. It would give me free -entrance to the theaters also. - -Consequently I began to wonder how I should go about getting it. -Mitchell was so obviously opposed to me that I knew it would be useless -to appeal to him. McCullagh might give it to me, but how appeal to him? -I thought of asking him direct, but that would be going over Mitchell’s -head, and he would never forgive me for that, I was sure. I debated for -a day or two, and then decided, since my principal relations had been -with Mr. McCullagh, that I would go to him direct. Why not? He had been -very kind to me, had sent for me. Let Mitchell be angry if he would. If -I made good he could not hurt me. - -I began to lay my plans or rather to screw up my courage to the point -where I could force myself to go and see Mr. McCullagh. He was such a -chill and distant figure. At the same time I felt that this man who was -the object of so much reverence was one of the loneliest persons -imaginable. He was not married. Day after day he came to this office -alone, sat alone, ate alone, went home alone, for he had no friends -apparently to whom he would condescend to unbend. This touched me. He -was too big, too lonely. - -This realization drew me sympathetically toward him and made me imagine, -if you please, that he ought to like me. Was I not his protégé? Had he -not brought me here? Instinctively I felt that I was one who could -appreciate him, one whom he might secretly like. The only trouble was -that he was old and famous, whereas I was a mere boy, but he would -understand that too. - -The day after I had made up my mind I began to loiter about the long -corridor which led to his office, in the hope of encountering him -accidentally. I had often noticed him shouldering his way along the -marble wainscoting of this hall, his little Napoleonic frame cloaked in -a conventional overcoat, his broad, strong, intellectual face crowned by -a wide-brimmed derby hat which he wore low over his eyes. Invariably he -was smoking a short fat cigar, and always looked very solemn, even -forbidding. However, having made up my mind, I lay in wait for him one -morning, determined to see him, and walking restlessly to the empty -telegraph room which lay at the other end of the hall from his office -and then back, but keeping as close as I could to one door or another in -order to be able to disappear quietly in case my courage failed me. Yet -so determined was I to see him that I had come down early, before any of -the others, in order that he should not slip in ahead of me and so rob -me of this seemingly accidental encounter. - -At about eleven he arrived. I was on one of my return trips from the -telegraph room when I heard the elevator click and dodged into the city -room only to reappear in time to meet him, ostensibly on my way to the -toilet. He gave me but one sage glance, then stared straight ahead. - -At sight of him I lost my courage. Arriving exactly opposite him, -however, I halted, controlled by a reckless, eager impulse. - -“Mr. McCullagh,” I said without further ado, “I want to know if you -won’t make me dramatic editor. I hear that Mr. Carmichael has resigned -and the position is open. I thought maybe you might give it to me.” I -flushed and hesitated. - -“I will,” he replied simply and gruffly. “You’re dramatic editor. Tell -Mr. Mitchell to let you be it.” - -I started to thank him but the stocky little figure moved indifferently -away. I had only time to say, “I’m very much obliged” before he was -gone. - -I returned to the city editorial room tingling to the fingertips. To -think that I should have been made dramatic editor, and so quickly, in -such an offhand, easy way! This great man’s consideration for me was -certainly portentous, I thought. Plainly he liked me, else why should he -do this? If only I could now bring myself seriously to this great labor -what might I not aspire to? Dramatic Editor of the _Globe-Democrat_ of -the great city of St. Louis, and at the age of twenty-one—well, now, -that was something, by George! And this great man liked me. He really -did. He knew me at sight, honored my request, and would no doubt, if I -behaved myself, make a great newspaper man of me. It was something to be -the favorite of a great editor-in-chief by jing—a very great thing -indeed. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX - - -UPON my explaining to Mitchell what had happened he looked at me coldly, -as much as to say “What the devil is this now that this ass is telling -me?” Then, thinking, I suppose, that I must have some secret hold on Mr. -McCullagh or at least stand high in his favor, he gave me a very wry -smile and said he would have made out for me a letter of introduction to -the local managers. An hour later this was laid on my desk by Hartung, -who congratulated me, and there I was: dramatic editor. “Gee!” exclaimed -Hartung when he came in with the letter. “I bet you could have knocked -Tobe over with a straw! He doesn’t understand yet, I guess, how well you -stand with the old man. The chief must like you, eh?” I could see that -my new honor made a considerable difference in his already excellent -estimate of me. - -Armed with this letter I now visited the managers of the theaters, all -of whom received me cordially. I can still see myself very gay and -enthusiastic, sure that I was entering upon a great work of some kind. -And the dreams I had in connection with the theater, my future as a -great popular playwright perhaps! It was all such a wonder-world to me, -the stage, such a fairyland, that I bubbled with joy as I went about -thinking that now certainly I should come in touch with actors, -beautiful women! Think of it—dramatic critic!—a person of weight and -authority! - -There were seven or eight theaters in St. Louis, three or four of them -staging only that better sort of play known as a first-class attraction; -the others giving melodrama, vaudeville and burlesque. The manager of -the Grand, a short, thick-set, sandy-complexioned man of most jovial -mien, was McManus, father of the well-known cartoonist of a later period -and the prototype of his most humorous character, Mr. Jiggs. He -exclaimed upon seeing me: - -“So you’re the new dramatic editor, are you? Well, they change around -over there pretty swift, don’t they? What’s happened to Carmichael? -First it was Hartridge, then Albertson, then Hazard, then Mathewson, -then Carmichael, and now you, all in my time. Well, Mr. Dreiser, I’m -glad to see you. You’re always welcome here. I’ll take you out and -introduce you to our doormen and Mr. —— in the box-office. He’ll always -recognize you. We’ll give you the best seat in the house if it’s empty -when you come.” - -He smiled humorously and I had to laugh at the way he rattled off this -welcome. An aura of badinage and humor encircled him, quite the same as -that which makes Mr. Jiggs delightful. This was the first I had ever -heard of Hazard having held this position, and now I felt a little -guilty, as though I had edged him out of something that rightfully -belonged to him. Still, I didn’t really care, sentimentalize as I might. -I had won. - -“Did Bob Hazard once have this position?” I asked familiarly. - -“Yes. That was when he was on the paper the last time. He’s been off and -on the _Globe_ three or four times, you know.” He smiled clownishly. I -laughed. - -“You and I’ll get along, I guess,” he smiled. - -At the other theaters I was received less informally but with uniform -courtesy; all assured me that I should be welcome at any time and that -if I ever wished tickets for myself or a friend or anybody on the paper -I could get them if they had them. “And we’ll make it a point to have -them,” said one. I felt that this was quite an acquisition of influence. -It gave me considerable opportunity to be nice to any friends I might -acquire, and then think of the privilege of seeing any show I chose, to -walk right into a theater without being stopped, and to be pleasantly -greeted en route! - - * * * * * - -The character of the stage of that day, in St. Louis and the rest of -America at least, as contrasted with what I know of its history in the -world in general, remains a curious and interesting thing to me. As I -look back on it now it seems inane, but then it was wonderful. It is -entirely possible that nations, like plants or individuals, have to grow -and obtain their full development regardless of the accumulated store of -wisdom and achievement in other lands, else how otherwise explain the -vast level of mediocrity which obtains in some countries and many forms -of effort, and that after so much that has been important elsewhere? - -The stage in other lands had already seen a few tremendous periods; even -here in America the mimetic art was no mystery. A few great things had -been done, in acting at least, by Booth, Barrett, Macready, Forrest, -Jefferson, Modjeska, Fanny Davenport, Mary Anderson, to name but a few. -I was too young at the time to know or judge of their art or the quality -of the plays they interpreted, aside from those of Shakespeare perhaps, -but certainly their fame for a high form of production was considerable. - -And yet, during the few months that I was dramatic editor, and the -following year when I was a member of another staff and had entrée to -these same theaters, I saw only one or two actors worthy the name, only -one or two performances which I can now deem worth while. Richard -Mansfield and Felix Morris stand out in my mind as excellent, and Sol -Smith Russell and Joseph Jefferson as amusing comedians, but who else? -Comic and light opera, with a heavy inter-mixture of straight melodrama, -and comedy-dramas, were about the only things that managers ventured to -essay. Occasionally a serious actor of the caliber of Sir Henry Irving -or E. S. Willard would appear on the scene, but many of their plays were -of a more or less melodramatic character, highly sentimental, emotional -and unreal. In my stay here of about a year and a half I saw Joseph -Jefferson, Sol Smith Russell, Salvini junior, Wilson Barrett, Fanny -Davenport, Richard Mansfield, E. S. Willard, Felix Morris, E. H. -Sothern, Julia Marlowe and a score of others more or less important but -too numerous to mention; comedians, light-opera singers and the like; -and although at the time I was entertained and moved by some of them, I -now realize that in the main they were certainly pale spindling lights. -And at that, America was but then entering upon its worst period of -stage sentiment or mush. The movies as such had not yet appeared, but -“Mr. Frohman presents” was upon us, master of middle-class sweetness and -sentimentality. I remember staring at the three-sheet lithos and -thinking how beautiful and perfect they were and what a great thing it -was to be of the stage. To be an author, an actor, a composer, a -manager! To have “Mr. Frohman present——”! - -The Empire and Lyceum theater companies, with their groups of perfect -lady and gentleman actors, were then at their height, the zenith of -stage art—Mr. John Drew, for instance, with his wooden face and manners, -Mr. Faversham, Miss Opp, Miss Spong, Miss This, Miss That. Such -excellent actors as Henry E. Dixey, Richard Mansfield or Felix Morris -could scarcely gain a hearing. I recall sitting one night in Hogan’s -Theater, at Ninth or Tenth and Pine streets, and hearing Richard -Mansfield order down the curtain at one of the most critical points in -his famous play “Baron Chevreuil,” or some such name, and then come -before it and denounce the audience in anything but measured terms for -what he considered its ignorance and lack of taste. It had applauded, it -seems, at the wrong time in that asinine way which only an American -audience can when it is there solely because it thinks it ought to be. -By that time Mansfield had already achieved a pseudo if not a real -artistic following and was slowly but surely becoming a cult. On this -occasion he explained to that bland gathering that they were fools, that -American audiences were usually composed of such animals or creatures -and were in the main dull to the point of ennui, that they were not -there to see a great actor act but to see a man called Richard -Mansfield, who was said to be a great actor. He pointed out how -uniformly American audiences applauded at the wrong time, how truly -immune they were to all artistic values, how wooden and -reputation-following. At this some of them arose and left; others seemed -to consider it a great joke and remained; still others were angry but -wanted to see the “show.” Having finished his speech he ordered up the -curtain and proceeded with his act as though nothing had happened, as -though the audience were really not there. I confess I rather liked him -for his stand even though I did not quite know whether he was right or -wrong. But I wrote it up as though he had grossly insulted his audience, -a body of worthy and respectable St. Louisans. Someone—Hazard, I -think—suggested that it would be good policy to do so, and I, being -green to my task, did so. - - * * * * * - -The saccharine strength of the sentiment and mush which we could gulp -down at that time, and still can and do to this day, is to me beyond -belief. And I was one of those who did the gulping; indeed I was one of -the worst. Those perfect nights, for instance, when as dramatic critic I -strolled into one theater or another, two or three in an evening -possibly, and observed (critically, as I thought) the work of those who -were leaders in dramatic or humorous composition and that of our leading -actors! It may be that the creative spirit has no particular use for -intelligence above a mediocre level, or, better yet and far more likely, -creative intelligence works through supermen whose visions, by which the -mob is eventually entertained and made wise, must content them. -Otherwise how explain the vast level of mediocrity, especially in -connection with the stage, the people’s playhouse, then, today and -forever, I suppose, until time shall be no more? - -I recall, for instance, that I thought Mr. Drew was really a superior -actor, and also that I thought that most of the plays of Henry Arthur -Jones, Arthur Wing Pinero, Augustus Thomas, and others (many others), -were enduring works of art. I confess it: I thought so, or at least I -heard so and let it go at that. How sound I thought their -interpretations of life to be! The cruel over-lords of trade in those -plays, for instance, how cruel they were and how true! The virtues of -the lowly workingman and the betrayed daughter with her sad, downcast -expression! The moral splendor of the young minister who denounced -heartless wealth and immorality and cruelty in high places and reformed -them then and there or made them confess their errors! I can see him -yet: slim, simple, perfect, a truly good man. The offhand on-the-spot -manner in which splendid reforms were effected in an hour or a night, -the wrongs righted instanter—in plays! You can still see them in any -movie house in America. To this hour there is no such thing as a -reckless unmarried girl in any movie exhibited in America. They are all -married. - -But how those St. Louis audiences applauded! _Right_, here in America at -least, was always appropriately rewarded and left triumphant, wrong was -quite always properly drummed out. Our better selves invariably got the -better of our lower selves, and we went home cured, reformed, saved. And -there was little of evil of any description which went before, in acts -one and two, which could not be straightened out in the last act. - -The spirit of these plays captivated my fancy at that time and elevated -me into a world of unreality which unfortunately fell in with the -wildest of my youthful imaginings. Love, as I saw it here set forth in -all those gorgeous or sentimental trappings, was the only kind of love -worth while. Fortune also, gilded as only the melodramatic stage can -gild it and as shown nightly by Mr. Frohman everywhere in America, was -the only type of fortune worth while. To be rich, elegant, exclusive, as -in the world of Frohman and Mr. Jones and Mr. Pinero! According to what -I saw here, love and youth were the only things worth discussing or -thinking about. The splendor of the Orient, the social flare of New -York, London and Paris, the excited sex-imaginings of such minds as -Dumas junior, Oscar Wilde, then in his heyday, Jones, Pinero and a -number of other current celebrities, seemed all to be built around youth -and undying love. The dreary humdrum of actual life was carefully shut -out from these pieces; the simple delights of ordinary living, if they -were used at all, were exaggerated beyond sensible belief. And -elsewhere—not here in St. Louis, but in the East, New York, London, -Paris, Vienna, St. Petersburg—were all the things that were worth while. -If I really wanted to be happy I must eventually go to those places, of -course. There were the really fine clothes and the superior -personalities (physically and socially), and vice and poverty (painted -in such peculiar colors that they were always divinely sad or repellent) -existed only in those great cities. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXX - - -I BEGAN to dream more than ever of establishing some such perfect -atmosphere for myself somehow, somewhere—but never in St. Louis, of -course. That was too common, too Western, too far removed from the real -wonders of the world. Love and mansions and travel and saccharine -romance were the great things, but they were afar off, in New York. (It -was around this time that I was establishing the atmosphere of a -“studio” in Tenth street.) Nothing could be so wonderful as love in a -mansion, a palace in some oriental realm such as was indicated in the -comic operas in which DeWolf Hopper, Thomas Q. Seabrooke, Francis -Wilson, Eddie Foy and Frank Daniels were then appearing. How often, with -McCord or Wood as companion, occasionally Hazard or a new friend -introduced to me by Wood and known as Rodenberger, or Rody (a most -amazing person, as I will later relate), I responded to these poetic -stage scenes! With one or other of these I visited as many theaters as I -could, if for no more than an hour or an act at a time, and consumed -with wonder and delight such scenes as most appealed to me: the -denunciation scene, for instance, in _The Middleman_, or the third act -of nearly any of Henry Arthur Jones’s plays. Also quite all of the light -operas of Reginald de Koven and Harry B. Smith, as well as those -compendiums of nondescript color and melody, the extravaganzas _The -Crystal Slipper_, _Ali Baba_, _Sindbad the Sailor_. Young actresses such -as Della Fox, Mabel Amber, Edna May, forerunners of a long line of comic -opera soubrettes, who somehow reminded me of Alice, held me spellbound -with delight and admiration. Here at last was the kind of maiden I was -really craving, an actress of this hoyden, airy temperament. - -I remember that one night, at the close of one of Mr. Willard’s -performances at the Olympic—_The Professor’s Love_ _Story_, in which he -was appearing with a popular leading woman, a very beautiful one—I was -asked by the manager to wait for a few moments after the performance so -that he might introduce me. Why, I don’t know. It seemed that he was -taking them to supper and thought they might like to meet one of the -local dramatic critics or that I might like to accompany them; an honor -which I declined, out of fright or bashfulness. When they finally -appeared in the foyer of the theater, however, the young actress very -stagy and soft and clinging and dressed most carefully after the manner -of the stage, I was beside myself with envy and despair. For she -appeared hanging most tenderly on her star’s arm (she was his mistress, -I understood) and gazing soulfully about. Such beauty! Such grace! Such -vivacity! Could anything be so lovely? Think of having such a perfect -creature love you, hang on your arm! And here was I, poor dub, a mere -reporter, a nobody, upon whom such a splendid creature would not bend a -second glance. Mr. Willard was full of the heavy hauteur of the actor, -which made the scene all the more impressive to me. I think most of us -like to be up-staged at one time or another by some one. I glanced at -her bashfully sidewise, pretending to be but little interested, while I -was really dying of envy. Finally, after a few words and a few -sweety-sweet smiles cast in my direction, I was urged to come with them -but instead hurried away, pleading necessity and cursing my stars and my -fate. Think of being a mere reporter at twenty-five or thirty a week, -while others, earning thousands, were thus basking in the sunshine of -success and love! Ah, why might not I have been born rich or famous and -so able to command so lovely a woman? - -If I had been of an ordinary, sensible, everyday turn of mind, with a -modicum of that practical wisdom which puts moderate place and position -first and sets great store by the saving of money, I might have -succeeded fairly well here, much better than I did anywhere else for a -long period after. Unquestionably Mr. McCullagh liked me; I think he may -have been fond of me in some amused saturnine way, interested to keep -such a bounding, high-flown dunce about the place. I might have held -this place for a year or two and made it a stepping-stone to something -better. But instead of rejoicing in the work and making it the end and -aim of my daily labors, I looked upon it as a mere bauble, something I -had today but might not have tomorrow. And anyhow, there were better -things than working day by day and living in a small room. Life ought -certainly to bring me something better, something truly splendid—and -soon. I deserved it—everything, a great home, fine clothes, pretty -women, the respect and companionship of famous men. Indeed all my pain -and misery was plainly caused by just such a lack or lacks as this. Had -I these things all would be well; without them—well, I was very -miserable. I was ready to accept socialism if by that I could get what I -wanted, while not ready to admit that all people were as deserving as I -by any means. The sad state of the poor workingman was a constant -thought with me, but nearly always I was the greatest and poorest and -most deserving of all workingmen. - -This view naturally tended to modify the sanity of my work. Granting a -modicum of imagination and force, still any youth limited as I was at -that time has a long road to go. Even in that most imaginative of all -professions, the literary, the possessor of such notions as I then held -is certainly debarred from accomplishing anything important until he -passes beyond them. Yet the particular thought or attitude I have -described appears to reign in youth. Too often it is a condition of many -minds of the better sort and is retained in its worst form until by -rough experience it is knocked out of them or they are destroyed utterly -in the process. But it cannot be got over with quickly. Mine was a sad -case. One of the things which this point of view did for me was to give -my writing, at that time, a mushy and melancholy turn which would not go -in any newspaper of today, I hope. It caused me to paint the ideal as -not only entirely probable but necessary before life would be what it -should!—the progress bug, as you see. I could so twist and discolor the -most commonplace scenes as to make one think that I was writing of -paradise. Indeed I allowed my imagination to run away with me at times -and only the good sense of the copy-reader or the indifference of a -practical-minded public saved the paper from appearing utterly -ridiculous. - -On one occasion, for instance, I went to report a play of mediocre -quality that was running at the Olympic, and was so impressed with a -love scene which was a part of it that I was entirely blinded to all the -faults of construction which the remainder of the play showed, and wrote -it up in the most glowing colors. And the copy-reader, Hartung, was too -weary that night or too inattentive to capture it. The next day some of -the other newspaper men in the office noticed it and commented on it to -me or to Hartung, saying it was ridiculously high-flown and that the -play itself was silly, which was true. But did that cure me? Not a bit. -I was reduced for a day or two by it, but not for long. Seeing other -plays of the same caliber and with much sweet love mush in them, I raved -as before. - -A little later a negro singer, a young woman of considerable vocal -ability who was being starred as the Black Patti, was billed to appear -in St. Louis. The manager of the bureau that was presenting her called -my attention by letter to her “marvelous” ability, and by means of -clippings and notices of her work published elsewhere had endeavored to -impress me favorably. I read these notices, couched in the glowing -phrases of the press-agent, and then went forth on this evening to cover -this myself. To make it all the grander, I invited McCord and with him -proceeded to the theater, where we were assigned a box. - -As it turned out, or as I chanced to see or feel it, the young woman was -a sweet and impressive singer, engaging and magnetic. McCord agreed with -me that she could sing. We listened to the program of a dozen pieces, -including such old favorites as _Suwanee River_ and _Comin’ Thro’ the -Rye_, and then I, being greatly moved, returned to the office and wrote -an account that was fairly sizzling with the beauty which I thought was -there. I did not attempt critically to analyze her art—I could not, -knowing nothing of even the rudiments of music—but plunged at once into -that wider realm which involved the subtleties of nature itself. “What -is so beautiful as the sound which the human voice is capable of -producing,” I wrote in part, “especially when that voice is itself a -compound of the subtlest things in nature? Here we have a young girl, -black it is true, fresh from the woods and fields of her native country, -yet, blessed by some strange chance with that mystic thing, a voice, and -fittingly interpreting via song all that we hold to be most lovely. The -purling of the waters, the radiance of the moonlight, the odor of sweet -flowers, sunlight, storm, the voices and echoes of nature, all are found -here, thrilling over lips which represent in their youthfulness but a -few of the years which wisdom and skill would seem to require. Yes, one -may sit and, in hearing Miss Jones sing, vicariously entertain all these -things, because of them she is a compound, youthful, vivacious, -suggestive of the elemental sweetness of nature itself.” - -To understand the significance of such a statement in St. Louis one -would have to look into the social and political conditions of the -people who dwelt there. To a certain extent they were Southern in -temperament, representing the vigorous anti-negro spirit which prevailed -for so many years after the war. Again, they were fairly illuminated -where music was concerned. Assuming that a bit of idealism such as this -was sound, it might get by; but when it is remembered that this was -largely mush and written about a negro, a race more or less alien to -their sympathy, would it not naturally fall upon hard ears and appear -somewhat ridiculous? A negro the compound of the subtlest elements in -nature! And this in their favorite paper! - -By chance it went through, Hartung having come to look upon most of my -stuff as the outpourings of some strange genius who could do about as he -pleased. Neither Mitchell nor the editor-in-chief saw it perhaps, or if -they did they gave it no attention, music, the theater and the arts -being of small import here. But, depend upon it, the editors of the -various rival papers that were constantly being sniffed at by the -_Globe_ saw it and knowing the sensitiveness of our editor-in-chief to -criticism of his own paper at once set to work to make something out of -it. And of all the editors in the middle West, McCullagh, by reason of -his force and taste and care in editing his paper, was a shining target -for a thing like this. He was, as a rule, impeccable and extremely -conspicuous. Whatever he did or said, good, bad or indifferent, was -invariably the subject of local newspaper comment, and when any little -discrepancy or error appeared in the _Globe-Democrat_ it was always -charged to him personally. And so it was with this furore over the Black -Patti. It was too good a thing to be lost sight of. - -“The erudite editor of the _Globe-Democrat_,” observed the -_Post-Dispatch_ editorially, “appears to have visited one of our -principal concert halls last night. It is not often that that ponderous -intellect can be called down from the heights of international politics -to contemplate so simple a thing as a singer of songs, a black one at -that; but when true art beckons even he can be counted upon to answer. -Apparently the Black Patti beckoned to him last evening, and he was not -deaf to her call, as the following magnificent bit of word-painting -fresh from his pen is here to show.” (Then followed the praise in full.) -“None but the grandiloquent editor of the _Globe-Democrat_ could have -looked into the subtleties of nature, as represented by the person of -Miss Sisseretta Jones, and there discovered the wonders of music and -poetry such as he openly confesses to have done. Indeed we have here at -last a measure of that great man’s insight and feeling, a love of art, -music, poetry and the like such as has not previously been indicated by -him. And we hereby hasten to make representation of our admiration and -great debt that others too may not be deprived of this great privilege.” -After this came more of the same gay raillery, with here and there a -reference to “the great patron of the black arts” and the pure joy that -must have been his at thus vicariously being able to enjoy within the -precincts of Exposition Hall “the purling of the waters” bubbling from a -black throat. It was a gentle satire, not wholly uncalled for since the -item had appeared in the _Globe_, and directed at the one man who could -least stand that sort of thing, sensitive as he was to his personal -dignity. - -I was blissfully unaware that any comment had been made on my effusion -until about five in the afternoon, by which time the afternoon editions -of the _Post-Dispatch_ had been out several hours. When I entered the -office at five, comfortable and at peace with myself in my new position, -excited comment was running about the office as to what “the old man” -would think and say and do now. He had gone at two, it appeared, to the -Southern for luncheon and had not returned. Wait until he saw it! Oh me! -Oh my! Wouldn’t he be hopping! Hartung, who was reasonably nervous as to -his own share in the matter, was the first to approach and impress me -with the dreadfulness of it all, how savage “the old man” could be in -any such instance. “Gee, just wait! Oh, but he’ll be hot, I bet!” As he -talked the “old man” passed up the hall, a grim and surly figure. I saw -my dramatic honors going a-glimmering. - -“Here,” I said to Hartung, pretending a kind of innocence, even at this -late hour, “what’s all this about? What’s the row, anyhow?” - -“Didn’t you see the editorial in the _Post-Dispatch_?” inquired Hartung -gloomily. It was his own predicament that was troubling him. - -“No. What about?” - -“Why, that criticism you wrote about the Black Patti. They’ve made all -sorts of fun of it. The worst of it is that they’ve charged it all up to -the old man.” - -I smiled a sickly smile. I felt as if I had committed some great crime. -Why had I attempted to write anything “fine” anyhow? Why couldn’t I have -been content and rested with a little praise? Had I no sense at all? -Must I always be trying to do something great? Perhaps this would be the -end of me. - -Hartung brought me the _Post-Dispatch_, and sorrowfully and with falling -vitals I read it, my toes curling, my stomach seeming gradually to -retire to my backbone. Why had I done it! - -As I was standing there, my eyes glued to the paper, near the door which -looked into the main city room in which was Tobe scribbling dourly away, -I heard and then saw McCullagh enter and walk up to the stout city -editor. He had a copy of the selfsame _Post-Dispatch_ crumpled roughly -in his hand, and on his face was gathered what seemed to me a dark -scowl. - -“Did you see this, Mr. Mitchell?” I heard him say. - -Tobe looked up, then closely and respectfully at the paper. - -“Yes,” he said. - -“I don’t think a thing like that ought to appear in our paper. It’s a -little bit too high-flown for our audience. Your reader should have -modified it.” - -“I think so myself,” replied Tobe quietly. - -The editor walked out. Tobe waited for his footsteps to die away and -then growled at Hartung: “Why the devil did you let that stuff go -through? Haven’t I warned you against that sort of thing? Why can’t you -watch out?” - -I could have fallen through the floor. I had a vision of Hartung burying -his head in his desk, scared and mute. - -After the evening assignments had been given out and Tobe had gone to -dinner, Hartung crept up to me. - -“Gee, the old man was as mad as the devil!” he began. “Tobe gave me -hell. He won’t say anything to you maybe, but he’ll take it out on me. -He’s a little afraid of your pull with the old man, but he gives me the -devil. Can’t you look out for those things?” - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXXI - - -IN spite of this little mishap, which did me no great harm, there was a -marked improvement in my affairs in every way. I had a better room, -various friends—Wood, McCord, Rodenberger, Hazard, Bellairs, a new -reporter by the name of Johnson, another by the name of Walden Root, a -nephew of the senator—and the growing consideration if not admiration of -many of the newspaper men of the city. Among them I was beginning to be -looked upon as a man of some importance, and the proof of it was that -from time to time I found myself being discussed in no mild way. From -now on I noticed that my noble Wood, whom I had so much looked up to at -first, began to take me about with him to one or more Chinese -restaurants of the most beggarly description in the environs of the -downtown section, which same he had discovered and with the proprietors -of which he was on the best of terms. They were really hang-outs for -crooks and thieves and disreputable tenderloin characters generally -(such was the beginning of the Chinese restaurant in America), but not -so to Wood. He had the happy faculty of persuading himself that there -was something vastly mysterious and superior about the entire Chinese -race, and after introducing me to many of his new laundry friends he -proceeded to assure me of the existence of some huge Chinese -organization known as the Six Companies which, so far as I could make -out from hearing him talk, was slowly but surely (and secretly, of -course) getting control of the entire habitable globe. It had complete -control of great financial and constructive ventures here, there and -everywhere, and supplied on order thousands of Chinese laborers to any -one who desired them, anywhere. And this organization ruled them with a -rod of iron, cutting their throats and burying them head down in a -bucket of rice when they failed to perform their bounden duties and -transferring their remains quietly to China, in coffins made in China -and brought here for that purpose. The Chinese who had worked for the -builders of the Union Pacific had been supplied by this company, so he -said. - -Again, there were the Chinese Free Masons, a society so old and so -powerful and so mysterious that one might speak of it only in whispers -for fear of getting into trouble. This indeed was _the_ great -organization of the world, in China and everywhere else. Kings and -potentates knew of it and trembled before its power. If it wished it -could sweep the Chinese Emperor and all European monarchs off their -thrones tomorrow. There were rites, mysteries, sanctuaries within -sanctuaries in this great organization. He himself was as yet a mere -outsider, snooping about, but by degrees, slowly and surely, as I was -given to understand, was worming its secrets out of these Chinese -restaurant-keepers and laundrymen, its deepest mysteries, whereby he -hoped to profit in this way: he was going to study Chinese, then go to -China. There he would get into this marvelous organization through the -influence of some of his Chinese friends here. Then he was going to get -next to some of the officials of the Chinese Government, and being thus -highly recommended and thought of would come back here eventually as an -official Chinese interpreter, attached perhaps to the Chinese Legation -at Washington. How he was to profit so vastly by this I could not see, -but he seemed to think that he would. - -Again, there was his literary world which he was always dreaming about -and slaving over, his art ambitions, into which I was now by degrees -permitted to look. He was forging ahead in that realm, and since I was -doing fairly well as a daily scribbler it might be that I would be able -to perceive a little of all he was hoping to do. His great dream or -scheme was to study the underworld life of St. Louis at first hand, -those horrible, grisly, waterfront saloons and lowest tenderloin dives -and brothels south of Market and east of Eighth where, listening to the -patois of thieves and pimps and lechers and drug-fiends and murderers -and outlaws generally, he was to extract from them, aside from their -stories, some bizarre originality of phrase and scene that was to stand -him in good stead in the composition of his tales. Just now, so he told -me, he was content with making notes, jotting down scraps of -conversation heard at bars, in sloppy urinals, cheap dance-halls, and I -know not what. With a little more time and a little more of that slowly -arriving sanity which comes to most of us eventually, I am inclined to -think that he might have made something out of all this; he was so much -in earnest, so patient; only, as I saw it, he was filled with an almost -impossible idealism and romance which threw nearly everything out of -proportion. He naturally inclined to the arabesque and the grotesque, -but in no balanced way. His dreams were too wild, his mood at nearly all -times too utterly romantic, his deductions far beyond what a sane -contemplation of the facts warranted. - -And relative to this period I could other tales unfold. He and Peter, -long before I had arrived on the scene, had surrounded themselves with a -company of wayfarers of their own: down-and-out English army officers -and grafting younger sons of good families, a Frenchman or two, one of -whom was a poet, several struggling artists who grafted on them, and a -few weird and disreputable characters so degraded and nondescript that I -could never make out just what their charm was. At least two of these -had suitable rooms, where, in addition to Dick’s and mine, we were -accustomed to meet. There were parties, Sunday and evening walks or -trips, dinners. Poems, on occasion, were read, original, first-hand -compositions; Dick’s stories, as Peter invariably insisted, were -“inflicted,” the “growler” or “duck” (a tin bucket of good size) was -“rushed” for beer, and cheese and crackers and hot crawfish, sold by old -ambling negroes on the streets after midnight, were bought and consumed -with gusto. Captain Simons, Captain Seller, Toussaint, Benèt—these are -names of figures that are now so dim as to be mere wraiths, ranged about -a smoky, dimly lighted room in some downtown rooming-house. Both Dick -and Peter had reached that distinguished state where they were the -center of attraction as well as supports and props to these others, and -between them got up weird entertainments, knockabout Dutch comedian -acts, which they took down to some wretched dance-hall and staged, each -“doing a turn.” The glee over the memory of these things as they now -narrated them to me! - -Wood was so thin physically and so vigorous mentally that he was -fascinating to look at. He had an idea that this bohemianism and his -story work were of the utmost importance; and so they were if they had -been but a prelude to something more serious, or if his dreams could -only have been reduced to paper and print. There was something that lay -in his eye, a ray. There was an aroma to his spirit which was delicious. -As I get him now, he was a rather underdone Poe or de Maupassant or -Manet, and assuredly a portion of the makings was certainly there. For -at times the moods he could evoke in me were poignant, and he saw beauty -and romance in many and strange ways and places. I have seen him enter a -dirty, horrible saloon in one of St. Louis’s lowest dive regions with -the air of a Prince Charming and there seat himself at some sloppy -table, his patent leather low-quarters scraping the sanded or sawdusted -floor, order beer and then, smiling genially upon all, begin to -transcribe from memory whole sections of conversations he had heard -somewhere, in the street perhaps, all the while racking his brain to -recall the exact word and phrase. Unlike myself, he had a knack of -making friends with these shabby levee and underworld characters, -syphilitic, sodden, blue-nosed bums mostly, whom he picked up from -Heaven knows where. And how he seemed to prize their vile language, -their lies and their viler thoughts! - -And there was McCord, bless his enthusiastic, materialistic heart, who -seemed to take fire from this joint companionship and was determined to -do something, he scarcely knew what—draw, paint, write, -collect—anything. His mind was so wrought up by the rich pattern which -life was weaving before his eyes that he could scarcely sleep at nights. -He was for prowling about with us these winter and spring days, looking -at the dark city after work hours, or investigating these wretched dives -with Dick and myself. Or, the three of us would take a banjo, a mandolin -and a flute (McCord could perform on the flute and Dick on the mandolin) -and go to Forrest Park or one of the minor parks on the south side, and -there proceed to make the night hideous with our carolings until some -solid policeman, assuming that the public had rights, would interfere -and bid us depart. Our invariable retort on all such occasions was that -we were newspaper men and artists and as such entitled to courtesies -from the police, which the thick-soled minion of the law would -occasionally admit. Sometimes we would go to Dick’s room or mine and -chatter and sing until dawn, when, somewhat subdued, we would seek out -some German saloon-keeper whom either Peter or Wood knew, rouse him out -of his slumbers and demand that he come down and supply us with ham and -eggs and beer. - -My stage critical work having vivified my desire to write a play or -comic opera on the order of _Wang_ or _The Isle of Champagne_, two of -the reigning successes of that day, or the pleasing _Robin Hood_ of de -Koven, I set about this task as best I might, scribbling scenes, bits of -humor, phases of character. In this idea I was aided and abetted not -only by Wood and McCord, both of whom by now seemed to think I might do -something, but by the fact that the atmosphere of the _Globe_ office, as -well as of St. Louis itself, was, for me at least, inspirational and -creative. I liked the world in which I now found myself. There were -about me and in the city so many who seemed destined to do great -things—Wood, McCord, Hazard, a man by the name of Bennett who was -engaged in sociologic propaganda of one kind and another, William Marion -Reedy, already editing the _Mirror_, Albert Johnson, a most brilliant -reporter who had, preceding my coming, resigned from the _Globe_ and -gone over to the _Chronicle_, Alfred Robyn, composer of _Answer_ and -_Marizanillo_, one of whose operas was even then being given a local -tryout. I have mentioned the wonderful W. C. Brann who preceded me in -writing “Heard in the Corridors” and who later stirred America with the -_Iconoclast_. - -All this, plus the fact that Augustus Thomas had come from here, a -reporter on the _Post-Dispatch_, and that I was now seeing one of his -plays, _In Missouri_, moved me to the point where I finally thought out -what I considered a fairly humorous plot for a comic opera, which was to -be called _Jeremiah I_. It was based on the idea of transporting, by -reason of his striking accidentally a mythical Aztec stone on his farm, -an old Indiana farmer of a most cantankerous and inquisitive disposition -from the era in which he then was back into that of the Aztecs of -Mexico, where, owing to a religious invocation then being indulged in -with a view to discovering a new ruler, he was assumed to be the answer. -Beginning as a cowardly refugee in fear for his life, he was slowly -changed into an amazing despot, having at one time as many as three -hundred ex-advisers or Aztec secretaries of state in one pen awaiting -poisoning. He was to be dissuaded from carrying out this plan by his -desire for a certain Aztec maiden, who was to avoid him until he -repented of his crimes. She eventually persuaded him to change the form -of government from that of a despotism to that of a republic, with -himself as candidate for President. - -There was nothing much to it. Its only humor lay in the thought or sight -of a cranky, curious, critical farmer super-imposed upon ancient -architecture and forms of worship. Having once thought it out, however, -and being pleased with it, I worked at it feverishly nights when I was -not on assignments, and in a week or less had a rough outline of it, -lyrics and all. I told McCord and Wood about it. And so great was their -youthful encouragement that at once I saw this as the way out of my -difficulties, the path to that great future I desired. I would become -the author of comic opera books. Already I saw myself in New York, rich, -famous. - -But at that time I could not possibly write without constant -encouragement, and having roughed out the opera I now burned for -assistance in developing it in detail. At last I went to Peter and told -him of my difficulty, my inability to go ahead. He seemed to relish the -whole idea hugely, so much so that he made the thing seem far more -plausible and easy for me to do and urged me to go ahead, not to faint -or get cold feet. Enamored of costumes and gorgeous settings, he even -went so far as to first suggest and then later work out in water color, -suggestions for costumes and color schemes which I thought wonderful. I -was lifted to the seventh heaven. To think that I had worked out -something which he considered interesting! - -Later that evening, at Peter’s suggestion I outlined portions of it to -Wood. He also seemed to believe that it was good. He insisted that there -must be an evening at his room or mine when I would read it all to them. -Accordingly a week later I read it in Dick’s room, to much partial -applause of course. What else could they do? Peter even went so far as -to suggest that he would love to act the part of Jeremiah I, and -forthwith began to give us imitations of the prospective king’s -mannerisms and characteristics. Whatever the merit of the manuscript -itself, certainly we imagined Peter’s characterizations to be funny. -Later he brought me as many as fifty designs of costumes and scenes in -color, which appealed to me as having novelty as well as beauty. He had -evidently worked for weeks, nights after hours and mornings before -coming to the office and on Sundays. By this I was so thrilled that I -could scarcely believe my eyes. To think that I had written the book of -a real comic opera that should be deemed worthy of this, and that it was -within the range of possibility that it would some day be produced! - -I began to feel myself a personage, although at bottom I mistrusted the -reality of it all. Fate could not be that kind, not so swift. I should -never get it produced ... and yet, like the man in the Arabian fable who -kicked over his tray of glassware, dreaming great dreams, I was tending -toward the same thing. There was always in me the saving grace of doubt -or self-mistrust. I was never quite sure that I should be able to do all -that at times I was inclined to hope I might, and so was usually -inclined to go about my work as nervously and as enthusiastically as -ever, hoping that I might have some of the good fortune of which I -dreamed, but never seriously depending on it. - -Perhaps it would have been better for me had I. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXXII - - -WHILE I rejoiced in the thought that I might now, and so easily, become -a successful comic opera librettist, and a poet besides, still I found -myself for the most part in a very gloomy frame of mind. One of the -things that grieved me intensely, as I have said, was the sight of -bitter poverty and failure, and the fact that I personally was not one -of those solid commercial figures of which St. Louis was full at this -time. They filled the great hotels, the clubs, the mansions, the social -positions of importance. They were free, as I foolishly thought, to -indulge in all those luxuries and pleasures which, as I so sadly saw, -the poor were not privileged to enjoy, myself included. Just about that -time there was something about a commercial institution—its exterior -simplicity and bareness, the thrash of its inward life, its suggestion -of energy, force, compulsion and need—which invariably held me -spellbound. Despite my literary and artistic ambitions, I still -continued to think it essential, to me, and to all men for that matter -if they were to have any force and dignity in this world, that each and -every one should be in control of something of this kind, something -commercially and financially successful. And what was I—a pale sprout of -a newspaper man, possibly an editor or author in the future, but what -more? - -At times this state of mind tended to make me irritable and even savage -instead of sad. I thought that my very generous benefactor, the great -McCullagh, ought to see what an important man I was and give me at once -the dramatic editorship free and clear of any other work, or at least -combine it with something better than mere reporting. I ought to be -allowed to do editorials or special work. Again, my mind, although -largely freed of Catholic and religious dogma generally and the belief -in the workability of the Christian ideals as laid down in the Sermon on -the Mount, was still swashing around among the idealistic maxims of -Christ and the religionists and moralists generally, contrasting them -hourly, as it were, with the selfish materialism of the day as I saw it. -Look at the strong men at the top, I was constantly saying to myself, so -comfortable, so indifferent, so cruelly dull. How I liked to flail them -with maxims excerpted from Christ! Those large districts south of the -business heart, along the river and elsewhere, which nightly or weekly -Wood, McCord and myself were investigating and which were crowded with -the unfit, the unsuccessful, the unhappy—how they haunted me and how I -attempted (in my mind, of course) to indict society and comfort them -with the poetic if helpless words of the Beatitudes and the Sermon on -the Mount: “Blessed are the poor,” etc. Betimes, interviewing one -important citizen and another, I gained the impression that they truly -despised any one who was poor, that they did not give him or his fate a -second thought; and betimes I was right—other times wrong. But having -been reared on maxims relative to Christian duty I thought they should -devote their all to the poor. This failure on their part seemed terrible -to me, for having been taught to believe in the Sermon on the Mount I -thought they—not myself, for instance—were the ones to make it work out. -Mr. McCullagh had begun sending me out of town on various news stories, -which was in itself the equivalent of a traveling correspondentship and -might readily have led to my being officially recognized as such if I -had remained there long enough. Trials of murder cases in St. Joseph and -Hannibal, threatened floods in lower Illinois, and train robberies -(common occurrences in this region, either between St. Louis and Kansas -City, or St. Louis and Louisville) made it necessary for me to make -arrangements with Hazard or Wood to carry on my dramatic work while I -went about these tasks; a necessity which I partly relished and partly -disliked, being uncertain as to which was the more important task to me. - -However, I was far from satisfied. I was too restless and dissatisfied. -Life, life, life, its contrasts, disappointments, lacks, enticements, -was always prodding me. The sun might shine brightly, the winds of -fortune blow favorably. Nevertheless, though I might enjoy both, there -was always this undertone of something that was not happiness. I was not -placed right. I was not this, I was not that. Life was slipping away -fast (and I was twenty-one!). I could see the tiny sands of my little -life’s hourglass sifting down, and what was I achieving? Soon the -strength time, the love time, the gay time, of color and romance, would -be gone, and if I had not spent it fully, joyously, richly what would -there be left for me then? The joys of a mythical heaven or hereafter -played no part in my calculations. When one was dead one was dead for -all time. Hence the reason for the heartbreak over failure here and now; -the awful tragedy of a love lost, a youth never properly enjoyed. Think -of living and yet not living in so thrashing a world as this, the best -of one’s hours passing unused or not properly used. Think of seeing this -tinkling phantasmagoria of pain and pleasure, beauty and all its sweets, -go by, and yet being compelled to be a bystander, a mere onlooker, -enhungered but never satisfied! In this mood I worked on, doing -sometimes good work because I was temporarily fascinated and -entertained, at other times grumbling and dawdling and moaning over what -seemed to me the horrible humdrum of it all. - -One day, in just such a mood as this, I received the following final -letter from Alice, from whom I had not heard now in months: - - “Dear Theo, - - “Tomorrow is my wedding-day. Tomorrow at twelve. This may strike - you as strange. Well, I have waited—I don’t know how long—it has - seemed like years to me—for some word, but I knew it was not to - be. Your last letter showed me that. I knew that you did not - intend to return, and so I went back to Mr. ——. I had to. What - else have I to look forward to? You know how unhappy I am here - with my family, now that you are gone, in spite of how much they - care for me. - - “Oh, Theo, you must think me foolish for writing this. I am - ashamed of myself. Still, I wanted to let you know, and to say - good-bye, for although you have been indifferent I cannot bear - any hard feelings toward you. I will make Mr. —— a good wife. He - understands I do not love him, but that I appreciate him. - Tomorrow I will marry him, unless—unless something happens. You - ought not to have told me that you loved me, Theo, unless you - could have stayed with me. You have caused me so much pain. - - “But I must say good-bye. This is the last letter I shall ever - write you. Don’t send my letters now—tear them up. It is too - late. Oh, if you only knew how hard it has been to bring myself - to this! - - “ALICE.” - -I sat and stared at the floor after reading this. The pain I had caused -was a heavy weight. The implication that if I would come to Chicago -before noon of this day, or telegraph for her to delay, was too much. -What if I should go to Chicago and get her—then what? To her it would be -a beautiful thing, the height of romance, saving her from a cruel or -dreary fate; but what of me? Should I be happy? Was my profession or my -present restless and uncertain state of mind anything to base a marriage -on? I knew it was not.... I also knew that Alice, in spite of my great -sadness and affection for her, was really nothing more to me than a -passing bit of beauty, charming in itself but of no great import to me. -I was sad for her and for myself, saddest because of that chief -characteristic of mine and of life which will not let anything endure -permanently: love, wealth, fame. I was too restless, too changeful. -There rose before me a picture of my finances as compared with what they -ought to be, and of any future in marriage based on it. Actually, as I -looked at it then, it was more the fault of life than mine. - -These thoughts, balancing with the wish I had for greater advancement, -caused me as usual to hesitate. But I was in no danger of doing anything -impulsive: there was no great impelling passion in this. It was mere -sentiment, growing more and more roseate and less and less operative. I -groaned inwardly, but night came and the next day, and I had not -answered. At noon Alice had been married, as she afterward told me—years -afterward, when the fire was all gone and this romance was ended -forever. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIII - - -THUS it was that I dawdled about the city wondering what would become of -me. My dramatic work, interesting as it was, was still so trivial in so -far as the space given it and the public’s interest in it were concerned -as to make it all but worthless. The great McCullagh was not interested -in the stage; the proof of it was that he entrusted this interesting -department to me. But circumstances were bringing about an onward if not -upward step. I was daily becoming so restless and unhappy that it would -have been strange if something had not happened. To think that there was -no more to this dramatic work for me than now appeared, and that in -addition Mr. McCullagh was allowing Mr. Mitchell to give me afternoon -and night or out-of-town assignments when I had important theatrical -performances to report! As a matter of fact they were not important, but -Mitchell had no consideration for my critical work. He continued to give -me two or three things to do on nights when, as he knew or I thought he -should, I should spend the evening witnessing a single performance. This -was to pay me out, so I thought, for going over his head. I grew more -and more resentful, and finally a catastrophe occurred. - -It happened that one Sunday night late in April three shows were -scheduled to arrive in the city, each performance being worthy of -special attention. Nearly all new shows opened in St. Louis on Sunday -night and it was impossible for me to attend them all in one evening. I -might have given both Dick and Peter tickets and asked them to help me, -but I decided, since this was a custom practiced by my predecessor at -times, to write up the notices beforehand, the facts being culled from -various press-agent accounts already in my hands, and then comment more -fully on the plays in some notes which I published mid-week. It -happened, however, that on this particular evening Mr. Mitchell had -other plans for me. Without consulting me or my theatrical duties he -handed me at about seven in the evening a slip of paper containing a -notice of a street-car hold-up in the far western suburbs of the city. I -was about to protest that my critical work demanded my presence -elsewhere but concluded to hold my tongue. He would merely advise me to -write up the notices of the shows, as I had planned, or, worse yet, tell -me to let other people do them. I thought once of going to McCullagh and -protesting, but finally went my way determined to do the best I could -and protest later. I would hurry up on this assignment and then come -back and visit the theaters. - -When I reached the scene of the supposed hold-up there was nothing to -guide me. The people at the car-barns did not know anything about it and -the crew that had been held up was not present. I visited a far outlying -police station but the sergeant in charge could tell me nothing more -than that the crime was not very important, a few dollars stolen. I went -to the exact spot but there were no houses in the neighborhood, only a -barren stretch of track lying out in a rain-soaked plain. It was a -gloomy, wet night, and I decided to return to the city. When I reached a -car-line it was late, too late for me to do even a part of my critical -work; the long distance out and the walks to the car-barn and the police -station had consumed much time. As I neared the city I found that it was -eleven o’clock. What chance had I to visit the theaters then? I asked -myself angrily. How was I to know if the shows had even arrived? There -had been heavy rains all over the West for the last week and there had -been many wash-outs. - -I finally got off in front of the nearest theater and went up to the -door; it was silent and dark. I thought of asking the drugman who -occupied a corner of the building, but that seemed a silly thing to be -doing at this hour and I let it go. I thought of telephoning to the -rival paper, the _Republic_, when I reached the office, but when I got -there I had first to report to Mitchell, who was just leaving, and then, -irritated and indifferent, I put it off for the moment. Perhaps Hartung -would know. - -“Do you know what time the first edition goes to press here, Hugh?” I -asked him at a quarter after twelve. - -“Twelve-thirty, I think. The telegraph man can tell you.” - -“Do you know whether the dramatic stuff I sent up this afternoon gets in -that?” - -“Sure—at least I think it does. You’d better ask the foreman of the -composing-room about it, though.” - -I went upstairs. Instead of calling up the _Republic_ at once, or any of -the managers of the theaters, or knocking out the notices entirely, I -inquired how matters stood with the first edition. I was not sure that -there was any reason for worrying about the shows not arriving, but -something kept telling me to make sure. - -At last I found that the first edition had been closed, with the notices -in it, and went to the telephone to call up the _Republic_. Then the -dramatic editor of that paper had gone and I could not find the address -of a single manager. I tried to reach one of the theaters, but there was -no response. The clock registered twelve-thirty by then, and I weakly -concluded that things must be all right or that if they weren’t I -couldn’t help it. I then went home and to bed and slept poorly, troubled -by the thought that something might be wrong and wishing now that I had -not been so lackadaisical about it all. Why couldn’t I attend to things -at the proper time instead of dawdling about in this fashion? I sighed -and tried to sleep. - -The next morning I arose and went through the two morning papers without -losing any time. To my horror and distress, there in the _Republic_ was -an announcement on the first page to the effect that owing to various -wash-outs in several States none of the three shows had arrived the -night before. And in my own paper, to my great pain was a full account -of the performances and the agreeable reception accorded them! - -“Oh, Lord!” I groaned. “What will McCullagh say? What will the other -papers say? Three shows reviewed, and not one here!” And in connection -with one I had written: “A large and enthusiastic audience received Mr. -Sol Smith Russell” at the Grand. And in connection with another that the -gallery of Pope’s Theater “was top-heavy.” The perspiration burst from -my forehead. Remembering Sisseretta Jones and my tendency to draw the -lightning of public observation and criticism, I began to speculate as -to what newspaper criticism would follow this last _faux pas_. “Great -God!” I thought. “Wait till he sees this!” and I was ready to weep. At -once I saw myself not only the laughing-stock of the town but discharged -as well. Think of being discharged now, after all my fine dreams as to -the future! - -Without delay I proceeded to the office and removed my few belongings, -resolved to be prepared for the worst. With the feeling that I owed Mr. -McCullagh an explanation I sat down and composed a letter to him in -which I explained, from my point of view, just how the thing had -happened. I did not attack Mr. Mitchell or seek to shield myself but -merely illustrated how I had been expected to handle my critical work in -this office. I also added how kind I thought he had been, how much I -valued his personal regard, and asked him not to think too ill of me. -This letter I placed in an envelope addressed to “Mr. Joseph B. -McCullagh, Personal,” and going into his private office before any -others had come down laid it on his desk. Then I retired to my room to -await the afternoon papers and think. - -They were not long in appearing, and neither of the two leading -afternoon papers had failed to notice the blunder. With the most -delicate, laughing raillery they had seized upon this latest error of -the great _Globe_ as a remarkable demonstration of what they affected to -believe was its editor’s lately acquired mediumistic and psychic powers. -The _Globe_ was regularly writing up various séances, slate-writing -demonstrations and the like, in St. Louis and elsewhere, things which -Mr. McCullagh was interested in or considered good circulation builders, -and this was now looked upon as a fresh demonstration of his development -in that line. “Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” I groaned when I read the following: - -“To see three shows at once,” observed the _Post-Dispatch_, “and those -three widely separated by miles of country and washed-out sections of -railroad in three different States (Illinois, Iowa and Missouri), is -indeed a triumph; but also to see them as having arrived, or as they -would have been had they arrived, and displaying their individual -delights to three separate audiences of varying proportions assembled -for that purpose is truly amazing, one of the finest demonstrations of -mediumship—or perhaps we had better say materialization—yet known to -science. Great, indeed, is McCullagh. Great the _G.-D._ Indeed, now that -we think of it, it is an achievement so astounding that even the _Globe_ -may well be proud of it—one of the finest flights of which the human -mind or the great editor’s psychic strength is capable. We venture to -say that no spiritualist or materializing medium has ever outrivaled it. -We have always known that Mr. McCullagh is a great man. The illuminating -charm of his editorial page is sufficient proof of that. But this latest -essay of his into the realm of combined dramatic criticism, supernatural -insight, and materialization, is one of the most perfect things of its -kind and can only be attributed to genius in the purest form. It is -psychic, supernatural, spooky.” - -The _Evening Chronicle_ for its part troubled to explain how ably and -interestedly the spirit audiences and actors, although they might as -well have been resting, the actors at least not having any contract -which compelled their subconscious or psychic selves to work, had -conducted themselves, doing their parts without a murmur. It was also -here hinted that in future it would not be necessary for the _Globe_ to -carry a dramatic critic, seeing that the psychic mind of its chief was -sufficient. Anyhow it was plain that the race was fast reaching that -place where it could perceive in advance that which was about to take -place; in proof of this it pointed of course to the noble mind which now -occupied the editorial chair of the _Globe-Democrat_, seeing all this -without moving from his office. - -I was agonized. Sweat rolled from my forehead; my nerves twitched. And -to think that this was the second time within no more than a month that -I had made my great benefactor the laughing-stock of the city! What must -he think of me? I could see him at that moment reading these -editorials.... He would discharge me.... - -Not knowing what to do, I sat and brooded. Gone were all my fine dreams, -my great future, my standing in the eyes of men and of this paper! What -was to become of me now? I saw myself returning to Chicago—to do what? -What would Peter, Dick, Hazard, Johnson, Bellairs, all my new found -friends, think? Instead of going boldly to the office and seeing my -friends, who were still fond of me if laughing at my break, or Mr. -McCullagh, I slipped about the city meditating on my fate and wondering -what I was to do. - -For at least a week, during the idlest hours of the morning and evening, -I would slip out and get a little something to eat or loiter in an old -but little-frequented book-store in Walnut Street, hoping to keep myself -out of sight and out of mind. In a spirit of intense depression I picked -up a few old books, deciding to read more, to make myself more fit for -life. I also decided to leave St. Louis, since no one would have me -here, and began to think of Chicago, whether I could stand it to return -there, or whether I had better drift on to a strange place. But how -should I live or travel, since I had very little money—having wasted it, -as I now thought, on riotous living! The unhappy end of a spendthrift! - -Finally, after mooning about for a day or two more I concluded that I -should have to leave my fine room and try to earn some money here so as -to be able to leave. And so one morning, without venturing near the -_Globe_ and giving the principal meeting-places of reporters and friends -a wide berth, I went into the office of the St. Louis _Republic_, then -thriving fairly well in an old building at Third and Chestnut streets. -Here with a heavy heart, I awaited the coming of the city editor, H. B. -Wandell, of whom I had heard a great deal but whom I had never seen. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIV - - -THE _Republic_ was in a tumbledown old building in a fairly deserted -neighborhood in that region near the waterfront from which the city -proper had been steadily growing away for years. This paper, if I am not -mistaken, was founded in 1808. - -The office was so old and rattletrap that it was discouraging. The -elevator was a slow and wheezy box, bumping and creaking and suggesting -immediate collapse. The boards of the entrance-hall and the city -editorial room squeaked under one’s feet. The city reportorial room, -where I should work if I secured a place, was larger than that of the -_Globe_ and higher-ceiled, but beyond that it had no advantage. The -windows were tall but cracked and patched with faded yellow copy-paper; -the desks, some fifteen or twenty all told, were old, dusty, -knife-marked, smeared with endless ages of paste and ink. There was -waste paper and rubbish on the floor. There was no sign of either paint -or wallpaper. The windows facing east looked out upon a business court -or alley where trucks and vans creaked all day but which at night was -silent as the grave, as was this entire wholesale neighborhood. The -buildings directly opposite were decayed wholesale houses of some -unimportant kind where in slimsy rags of dresses or messy trousers and -shirts girls and boys of from fourteen to twenty worked all day, the -girls’ necks in summer time open to their breasts and their sleeves -rolled to their shoulders, the boys in sleeveless undershirts and -tight-belted trousers and with tousled hair. What their work was I -forget, but flirting with each other or with the reporters and printers -of this paper occupied a great deal of their time. - -The city editor, H. B. Wandell, was one of those odd, forceful -characters who because of my youth and extreme impressionability perhaps -and his own vigor and point of view succeeded in making a deep -impression on me at once. He was such a queer little man, so different -from Mitchell and McCullagh, nervous, jumpy, restless, vigorous, with -eyes so piercing that they reminded one of a hawk’s and a skin so -swarthy that it was Italian in quality and made all the more emphatic by -a large, humped, protruding nose pierced by big nostrils. His hands were -wrinkled and claw-like, and he had large yellowish teeth which showed -rather fully when he laughed. And that laugh! I can hear it yet, a cross -between a yelp and a cackle. It always seemed to me to be a mirthless -laugh, insincere, and yet also it had an element of appreciation in it. -He could see a point at which others ought to laugh without apparently -enjoying it himself. He was at once a small and yet a large man -mentally, wise and incisive in many ways, petty and even venomous in -others, a man to coddle and placate if you were beholden to him, one to -avoid if you were not, but on the whole a man above the average in -ability. - -And he had the strangest, fussiest, bossiest love of great literature of -any one I have ever known, especially in the realm of the newspapers. -Zola at this time was apparently his ideal of what a writer should be, -and after him Balzac and Loti. He seemed to know them well and to admire -and even love them, after his fashion. He was always calling upon me to -imitate Zola’s vivid description of the drab and the gross and the -horrible if I could, assuming that I had read him, which I had not, but -I did not say so. And Balzac’s and Loti’s sure handling of the sensual -and the poignant! How often have I heard him refer to them with -admiration, giving me the line and phrase of certain stark pictures, and -yet at the same time there was a sneaking bending of the knee to the -middle West conventions of which he was a part, a kind of horror of -having it known that he approved of these things. He was a Shriner and -very proud of it, as he was of various other local organizations to -which he belonged. He had the reputation of being one of the best city -editors in the city, far superior to my late master. Previously he had -been city editor of the _Globe_ itself for many years and was still -favorably spoken of in that office. After I left St. Louis he returned -to the _Globe_ for a time and once more became its guide in local news. - -But that is neither here nor there save as it illustrates what is a -cardinal truth of the newspaper world: that the best of newspaper men -are occasionally to be found on the poorest of papers, and vice versa. -Just at this time, as I understood, he was here because the _Republic_ -was making a staggering effort to build itself up in popular esteem, -which it finally succeeded in doing after McCullagh’s death, becoming -once more the leading morning paper as it had been before the _Globe_, -under McCullagh, arose to power. Just now, however, in my despondent -mood, it seemed an exceedingly sad affair. - -Mr. Wandell, as I now learned, had heard of me and my recent _faux pas_, -as well as some of the other things I had been doing. - -“Been working on the _Globe_, haven’t you?” he commented when I -approached him. “What did they pay you?” - -I told him. - -“When did you leave there?” - -“About a week ago.” - -“Why did you leave?” - -“Perhaps you saw those notices of three shows that didn’t come to town? -I’m the man who wrote them up.” - -“Oho! ho! ho!” and he began eyeing me drily and slapping his knee. “I -saw those. Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha! Yes, that was very funny—very. We had -an editorial on it. And so McCullagh fired you, did he?” - -“No, sir,” I replied indignantly. “I quit. I thought he might want to, -and I put a letter on his desk and left.” - -“Ha! ha! ha! Quite right! That’s very funny! I know just how they do -over there. I was city editor there myself once. They write them up in -advance sometimes. We do here. Where do you come from?” - -I told him. He meditated awhile, as though he were uncertain whether he -needed any one. - -“You say you got thirty dollars there? I couldn’t pay anybody that much -here—not to begin with. We never give more than eighteen to begin with. -Besides, I have a full staff just now, and it’s summer. I might use -another man if eighteen would be enough. You might think it over and -come in and see me again some time.” - -Although my spirits fell at so great a drop in salary I hastened to -explain that I would be glad to accept eighteen. I needed to be at work -again. - -“Whatever you would consider fair would suit me,” I said. - -He smiled. “The newspaper market is low just now. If your work proves -satisfactory I may raise you a little later on.” He must have seen that -he had a soft and more or less unsophisticated boy to deal with. - -“Suppose you write me a little article about something, just to show me -what you can do,” he added. - -I went away insulted by this last request. In spite of all he said I -could feel that he wanted me; but I had no skill in manipulating my own -affairs. To drop from thirty dollars as dramatic editor to eighteen as a -mere reporter was terrible. With a grain of philosophic melancholy I -faced it, however, feeling that if I worked hard I might yet get a start -in some way or other. I must work and save some money and if I did not -better myself I would leave St. Louis. My ability must be worth -something somewhere; it had been on the _Globe_. - -I went home and wrote the article (a mere nothing about some street -scene), went back to the office and left it. Next day I called again. - -“All right,” he said. “You can go to work.” - -I went back into that large shabby room and took a seat. In a few -minutes the place filled up with the staff, most of whom I knew and all -of whom eyed me curiously—reporters, special editors, the city editor -and his assistant, Mr. Williams of blessed memory, one-eyed, sad, -impressive, intelligent, who had nothing but kind things to say of what -I wrote and who was friendly and helpful until the day I left. - -In a little while the assignment book was put out, with the task I was -to undertake. Before I left I was called in and advised concerning it. I -went and looked into it (I have forgotten what it was) and reported -later in the day. What I wrote I turned over to Mr. Williams, and later -in the day when I asked him if it was all right he said: “Yes, quite all -right. It reads all right to me,” and then gave me a kindly, one-eyed -smile. I liked him from the first day; he was a better editor than -Wandell, with more taste and discrimination, and later rose to a higher -position elsewhere. - -Meanwhile I strolled about thinking of my great fall. It seemed as -though I should never get over this. But in a few days I was back in my -old reportorial routine, depressed but secure, convinced that I could -write as well as ever, and for any newspaper. - -For the romance of my own youth was still upon me, my ambitions and my -dreams coloring it all. Does the gull sense the terrors of the deep, or -the butterfly the traps and snares of the woods and fields? Roaming this -keen, new, ambitious mid-Western city, life-hungry and love-hungry and -underpaid, eager and ambitious, I still found so much in the worst to -soothe, so much in the best to torture me. In every scene of ease or -pleasure was both a lure and a reproach; in every aspect of tragedy or -poverty was a threat or a warning. I was never tired of looking at the -hot, hungry, weary slums, any more than I was of looking at the glories -of the mansions of the west end. Both had their lure, their charm; one -because it was a state worse than my own, the other because it was a -better—unfairly so, I thought. Amid it all I hurried, writing and -dreaming, half-laughing and half-crying, with now a tale to move me to -laughter and now another to send me to bottomless despairs. But always -youth, youth, and the crash of the presses in the basement and a fresh -damp paper laid on my desk of a morning with “the news” and my own petty -achievements or failures to cheer or disappoint me; so it went, day in -and day out. - -The _Republic_, while not so successful as the _Globe-Democrat_, was a -much better paper for me to work on. For one thing, it took me from -under the domination of Mr. Mitchell (one can hate some people most -persistently), and placed me under one who, whatever may have been his -defects, provided me with far greater opportunities for my pen than ever -the _Globe_ had and supplied a better judgment as to what constituted a -story and a news feature. Now that I think of him, Wandell was far and -away the best judge of news, from a dramatic or story point of view, of -any for whom I ever worked. - -“A good story, is it?” I can see him smirking and rubbing his hands -miser or gourmet fashion, as over a pot of gold or a fine dish. “She -said that, did she? Ha! ha! That’s excellent, excellent! You saw him -yourself, did you? And the brother too? By George, we’ll make a story of -that! Be careful how you write that now. All the facts you know, just as -far as they will carry you; but we don’t want any libel suits, remember. -We don’t want you to say anything we can’t substantiate, but I don’t -want you to be afraid either. Write it strong, clear, definite. Get in -all the touches of local color you can. And remember Zola and Balzac, my -boy, remember Zola and Balzac. Bare facts are what are needed in cases -like this, with lots of color as to the scenery or atmosphere, the room, -the other people, the street, and all that. You get me?” - -And quite truly I got him, as he was pleased to admit, even though I got -but little cash out of it. I always felt, perhaps unjustly, that he made -but small if any effort to advantage me in any way except that of -writing. But what of it? He was nearly always enthusiastic over my work, -in a hard, bright, waspish way, nearly always excited about the -glittering realistic facts which one might dig up and which he was quite -determined that his paper should present. The stories! The scandals! -That hard, cruel cackle of his when he had any one cornered! He must -have known what a sham and a fake most of these mid-Western pretensions -to sanctity and purity were, and yet if he did and was irritated by them -he said little to me. Like most Americans of the time, he was probably -confused by the endless clatter concerning personal perfection, the -Christ ideal, as opposed to the actual details of life. He could not -decide for himself which was true and which false, the Christ theory or -that of Zola, but he preferred Zola when interpreting the news. When -things were looking up from a news point of view and great realistic -facts were coming to the surface regardless of local sentiment, facts -which utterly contradicted all the noble fol-de-rol of the puritans and -the religionists, he was positively transformed. In those hours when the -loom of life seemed to be weaving brilliant dramatic or tragic patterns -of a realistic, Zolaesque character he was beside himself with gayety, -trotting to and fro in the local room, leaning over the shoulders of -scribbling scribes and interrupting them to ask details or to caution -them as to certain facts which they must or must not include, beaming at -the ceiling or floor, whistling, singing, rubbing his hands—a veritable -imp or faun of pleasure and enthusiasm. Deaths, murders, great social or -political scandals or upheavals, those things which presented the rough, -raw facts of life, as well as its tenderer aspects, seemed to throw him -into an ecstasy—not over the woes of others but over the fact that he -was to have an interesting paper tomorrow. - -“Ah, it was a terrible thing, was it? He killed her in cold blood, you -say? There was a great crowd out there, was there? Well, well, write it -all up. Write it all up. It looks like a pretty good story to me—doesn’t -it to you? Write a good strong introduction for it, you know, all the -facts in the first paragraph, and then go on and tell your story. You -can have as much space for it as you want—a column, a column and a half, -two—just as it runs. Let me look at it before you turn it in, though.” -Then he would begin whistling or singing, or would walk up and down in -the city room rubbing his hands in obvious satisfaction. - -And how that reportorial room seemed to thrill or sing between the hours -of five and seven in the evening, when the stories of the afternoon were -coming in, or between ten-thirty and midnight, when the full grist of -the day was finally being ground out. How it throbbed with human life -and thought, quite like a mill room full of looms or a counting house in -which endless records and exchanges are being made. Those reporters, -eighteen or twenty of them, bright, cheerful, interesting, forceful -youths, each bent upon making a name for himself, each working hard, -each here bending over his desk scratching his head or ear and thinking, -his mind lost in the mazes of arrangement and composition. - -Wandell had no tolerance for any but the best of newspaper reporters and -would discharge a man promptly for falling down on a story, especially -if he could connect it with the feeling that he was not as good a -newspaper man as he should be. He hated commonplace men, and once I had -become familiar with the office and with him, he would often ask me in a -spirit of unrest if I knew of an especially good one anywhere with whom -he could replace some one else whom he did not like; a thought which -jarred me but which did not prevent me from telling him. Somehow I had -an eye and a taste for exceptional men myself, and I wanted his staff to -be as good as any. So it was not long before he began to rely on me to -supply him with suitable men, so much so that I soon had the reputation -of being a local arbiter of jobs, one who could get men in or keep them -out—a thing which made me some enemies later. And it really was not true -for I could not have kept any good man out. - -In the meantime, while he was trying me out to suit himself, he had been -giving me only routine work: the North Seventh Street police station -afternoons and evenings, where one or two interesting stories might be -expected every day, crimes or sordid romances of one kind or another. Or -if there was nothing much doing there I might be sent out on an -occasional crime story elsewhere. Once I had handled a few of these for -him, and to his satisfaction, I was pushed into the topnotch class and -given only the most difficult stories, those which might be called -feature crimes and sensations, which I was expected to unravel, -sometimes single-handed, and to which always I was expected to write the -lead. This realistic method of his plus a keen desire to unload all the -heavy assignments on me was in no wise bad for me. He liked me, and this -was his friendly way of showing it. - -Indeed, with a ruthless inconsiderateness, as I then thought, he piled -on story after story, until I was a little infuriated at first, seeing -how little I was being paid. When nothing of immediate importance was to -be had, he proceeded to create news, studying out interesting phases of -past romances or crimes which he thought might be worth while to work up -and publish on Sunday, and handing them to me to do over. He even -created stories when the general news was dull, throwing me into the -most delicate and dangerous fields of arson, murder, theft, marital -unhappiness, and tragedies of all kinds, things not public but which by -clever detective work could be made so, and where libel and other suits -and damages lurked on either hand. Without cessation, Sunday and every -other day, he called upon me to display sentiment, humor or cold, hard, -descriptive force, as the case might be, quoting now Hugo, now Balzac, -now Dickens, and now Zola to me to show me just what was to be done. In -a little while, despite my reduced salary and the fact that I had lost -my previous place in disgrace and was not likely to get a raise here -soon, I was as much your swaggering newspaper youth as ever, strolling -about the city with the feeling that I was somebody and looking up all -my old friends, with the idea of letting them know that I was by no -means such a failure as they might imagine. Dick and Peter of course, -seeing me ambling in on them late one hot night, received me with open -arms. - -“Well, you’re a good one!” yelped Dick in his high, almost falsetto -voice when I came in. I could see that he had been sitting before his -open window, which commanded Broadway, where he had been no doubt -meditating—your true romancer. “Where the hell have you been keeping -yourself? You’re a dandy? We’ve been looking for you for weeks. We’ve -been down to your place a dozen times, but you wouldn’t let us in. -You’re a dandy, you are! McCord has some more of those opera cartoons -done. Why didn’t you ever come around, anyhow?” - -“I’m working down on the _Republic_ now,” I replied, blushing, “and I’ve -been busy.” - -“Oho!” laughed Dick, slapping his knees. “That’s a good one on you! I -heard about it. Those shows written up, and not one in town! Oho! That’s -good!” He coughed a consumptive cough or two and relaxed. - -I laughed with him. “It wasn’t really all my fault,” I said -apologetically. - -“I know it wasn’t. Don’t I know the _Globe_? Didn’t Carmichael get me to -work the same racket for him? Ask Hazard. It wasn’t your fault. Sit -down. Peter’ll be here in a little while; then we’ll go out and get -something.” - -We fell to discussing the attitude of the people on the _Globe_ after I -had left. Wood insisted that he had not heard much. He knew -instinctively that Mitchell was glad I was gone, as he might well have -been. Hartung had reported to him that McCullagh had raised Cain with -Mitchell and that two or three of the boys on the staff had manifested -relief. - -“You know who they’d be,” continued Wood. “The fellows who can’t do what -you can but would like to.” - -I smiled. “I know about who they are,” I said. - -We talked about the world in general—literature, the drama, current -celebrities, the state of politics, all seen through the medium of youth -and aspiration and inexperience. While we were talking McCord came in. -He had been to his home in South St. Louis, where he preferred to live -in spite of his zest for Bohemia, and the ground had all to be gone over -with him. We settled down to an evening’s enjoyment: Dick went for beer; -Peter lit a rousing pipe. Accumulated short stories were produced and -plans for new ones recounted. At one point Peter exclaimed: “You know -what I’m going to do, Dreiser?” - -“Well, what?” - -“I’m going to study for the leading rôle in that opera of yours. I can -play that, and I’m going to if you don’t object—do you?” - -“Object? Why should I object?” I replied, doubtful however of the wisdom -of this. Peter had never struck me as quite the actor type. “I’d like to -see you do it if you can, Peter.” - -“Oh, I can, all right. That old rube appeals to me. I bet that if I ever -get on the stage I can get away with that.” He eyed Dick for -confirmation. - -“I’ll bet you could,” said Dick loyally. “Peter makes a dandy rube. Oh, -will you ever forget the time we went down to the old Nickelodeon and -did a turn, Peter? Oho!” - -Later the three of us left for a bite and I could see that I was as high -in their favor as ever, which restored me not a little. Peter seemed to -think that my escapades and mishaps, coupled with the attention and -discussion which my name evoked among local newspaper men, were doing me -good, making me an interesting figure. I could scarcely believe that but -I was inclined to believe that I had not fallen as low as at first I had -imagined. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXXV - - -THE LaClede, as I have indicated, was the center of all gossiping -newspaper life at this time, at least that part of it of which I knew -anything. Here, in idling groups, during the course of a morning, -afternoon or evening, might appear Dick or Peter, Body, Clark, Hazard, -Johnson, Root, Johns Daws, a long company of excellent newspaper men who -worked on the different papers of the city from time to time and who, -because of a desire for companionship in this helter-skelter world and -the certainty of finding it here, hung about this corner. Here one could -get in on a highly intellectual or diverting conversation of one kind or -another at almost any time. So many of these men had come from distant -cities and knew them much better than they did St. Louis. As a rule, -being total strangers and here only for a short while, they were -inclined to sniff at conditions as they found them here and to boast of -those elsewhere, especially the men who came from New York, Boston, San -Francisco and Chicago. I was one of those who, knowing Chicago and St. -Louis only and wishing to appear wise in these matters, boasted -vigorously of the superlative importance of Chicago as a city, whereas -such men as Root of New York, Johnson of Boston, Ware of New Orleans, -and a few others, merely looked at me and smiled. - -“All I have to say to you, young fellow,” young Root once observed to me -genially if roughly after one of these heated and senseless arguments, -“is wait till you go to New York and see for yourself. I’ve been to -Chicago, and it’s a way-station in comparison. It’s the only other city -you’ve seen, and that’s why you think it’s so great.” There was a -certain amount of kindly toleration in his voice which infuriated me. - -“Ah, you’re crazy,” I replied. “You’re like all New Yorkers: you think -you know it all. You won’t admit you’re beaten when you are.” - -The argument proceeded through all the different aspects of the two -cities until finally we called each other damned fools and left in a -huff. Years later, however, having seen New York, I wanted to apologize -if ever I met him again. The two cities, as I then learned, each -individual and wonderful in its way, were not to be contrasted. But how -sure I was of my point of view then! - -Nearly all of these young men, as I now saw, presented a sharp contrast -to those I had known in Chicago, or perhaps the character of the work in -this city and my own changing viewpoint made them seem different. -Chicago at that time had seemed to be full of exceptional young men in -the reportorial world, men who in one way or another had already -achieved considerable local repute as writers and coming men: Finley -Peter Dunne, George Ade, Brand Whitlock, Ben King, Charles Stewart, and -many others, some of whom even in that day were already signing their -names to some of their contributions; whereas here in St. Louis, few if -any of us had achieved any local distinction of any kind. No one of us -had as yet created a personal or literary following. We could not, here, -apparently; the avenues were not the same. And none of us was hailed as -certain to attract attention in the larger world outside. We formed -little more than a weak scholastic brotherhood or union, recognizing -each other genially enough as worthy fellow-craftsmen but not offering -each other much consolation in our rough state beyond a mere class or -professional recognition as working newspaper men. Yet at times this -LaClede was a kind of tonic bear garden, or mental wrestling-place, -where unless one were very guarded and sure of oneself one might come by -a quick and hard fall, as when once in some argument in regard to a -current political question, and without knowing really what I was -talking about, I made the statement that palaeontology indicated -so-and-so, whereupon one of my sharp confrères suddenly took me up with: -“Say, what is palaeontology, anyhow? Do you know?” - -I was completely stumped, for I didn’t. It was a comparatively new word, -outside the colleges, being used here and there in arguments and -editorials, and I had glibly taken it over. I floundered about and -finally had to confess that I did not know what it was, whereupon I -endured a laugh for my pains. I was thereafter wiser and more cautious. - -But this, in my raw, ignorant state, was a very great help to me. Many -of these men were intelligent and informed to the cutting point in -regard to many facts of life of which I was extremely ignorant. Many of -them had not only read more but seen more, and took my budding local -pretensions to being somebody with a very large grain of salt. At many -of the casual meetings, where at odd moments reporters and sometimes -editors were standing or sitting about and discussing one phase of life -and another, I received a back-handed slap which sometimes jarred my -pride but invariably widened my horizon. - -One of the most interesting things in my life at this time was that same -North Seventh Street police station previously mentioned, to which I -went daily and which was a center for a certain kind of news at -least—rapes, riots, murders, fantastic family complications of all -kinds, so common to very poor and highly congested neighborhoods. This -particular station was the very center of a mixed ghetto, slum and negro -life, which even at this time was still appalling to me in some of its -aspects. It was all so dirty, so poor, so stuffy, so starveling. There -were in it all sorts of streets—Jewish, negro, and run-down American, or -plain slum, the first crowded with long-bearded Jews and their fat -wives, so greasy, smelly and generally offensive that they sickened me: -rag-pickers, chicken-dealers and feather-sorters all. In their streets -the smell of these things, picked or crated chickens, many of them -partially decayed, decayed meats and vegetables, half-sorted dirty -feathers and rags and I know not what else, was sickening in hot -weather. In the negro streets—or rather alleys, for they never seemed to -occupy any general thoroughfare—were rows or one-, two-, three-and -four-story shacks or barns of frame or brick crowded into back yards and -with thousands of blacks of the most shuffling and idle character -hanging about. In these hot days of June, July and August they seemed to -do little save sit or lie in the shade of buildings in this vicinity and -swap yarns or contemplate the world with laughter or in silence. -Occasionally there was a fight, a murder or a low love affair among them -which justified my time here. In addition, there were those other -streets of soggy, decayed Americans—your true slum—filled with as low -and cantankerous a population of whites as one would find anywhere, a -type of animal dangerous to the police themselves, for they could riot -and kill horribly and were sullen at best. Invariably the police -traveled here in pairs, and whenever an alarm from some policeman on his -beat was turned in from this region a sergeant and all the officers in -the station at the time would set forth to the rescue, sometimes as many -as eight or ten in a police wagon, with orders, as I myself have heard -them given, “to club the —— heads off them” or “break their —— bones, -but bring them in here. I’ll fix ’em”; in response to which all the -stolid Irish huskies would go forth to battle, returning frequently with -a whole vanload of combatants or alleged combatants, all much the worse -for the contest. - -There was an old fat Irish sergeant of about fifty or fifty-five, James -King by name, who used to amuse me greatly. He ruled here like a -potentate under the captain, whom I rarely saw. The latter had an office -to himself in the front of the station and rarely came out, seeming -always to be busy with bigwigs of one type and another. With the -sergeant, however, I became great friends. His place was behind the -central desk, in the front of which were two light standards and on the -surface of which were his blotter and reports of different kinds. Behind -the desk was his big tilted swivel chair, with himself in it, stout, -perspiring, coatless, vestless, collarless, his round head and fat neck -beady with sweat, his fat arms and hands moist and laid heavily over his -protuberant stomach. According to him, he had been at this work exactly -eight years, and before that he had “beat the sidewalk,” as he said, or -traveled a beat. - -“Yes, yes, ‘tis a waarm avenin’,” he would begin whenever I arrived and -he was not busy, which usually he was not, “an’ there’s naathin’ for ye, -me lad. But ye might just as well take a chair an’ make yerself -comfortable. It may be that something will happen, an’ again maybe it -won’t. Ye must hope fer the best, as the sayin’ is. ’Tis a bad time fer -any trouble to be breakin’ out though, in all this hot weather,” and -then he would elevate a large palmleaf fan which he kept near and begin -to fan himself, or swig copiously from a pitcher of ice-water. - -Here then he would sit, answering telephone calls from headquarters or -marking down reports from the men on their beats or answering the -complaints of people who came in hour after hour to announce that they -had been robbed or their homes had been broken into or that some -neighbor was making a nuisance of himself or their wives or husbands or -sons or daughters wouldn’t obey them or stay in at night. - -“Yes, an’ what’s the matter now?” he would begin when one of these would -put in an appearance. - -Perhaps it was a man who would be complaining that his wife or daughter -would not stay in at night, or a woman complaining so of her husband, -son or daughter. - -“Well, me good woman, I can’t be helpin’ ye with that. This is no court -av laaw. If yer husband don’t support ye, er yer son don’t come in av -nights an’ he’s a minor, ye can get an order from the judge at the Four -Courts compellin’ him. Then if he don’t mind ye and ye waant him -arrested er locked up, I can help ye that way, but not otherwise. Go to -the Four Courts.” - -Sometimes, in the case of a parent complaining of a daughter’s or son’s -disobedience, he would relent a little and say: “See if ye can bring him -around here. Tell him that the captain waants to see him. Then if he -comes I’ll see what I can do fer ye. Maybe I can scare him a bit.” - -Let us say they came, a shabby, overworked mother or father leading a -recalcitrant boy or girl. King would assume a most ferocious air and -after listening to the complaint of the parent as if it were all news to -him would demand: “What’s ailin’ ye? Why can’t ye stay in nights? What’s -the matter with ye that ye can’t obey yer mother? Don’t ye know it’s -agin the laaw fer a minor to be stayin’ out aafter ten at night? Ye -don’t? Well, it is, an’ I’m tellin’ ye now. D’ye waant me t’lock ye up? -Is that what ye’re looking fer? There’s a lot av good iron cells back -there waitin’ fer ye if ye caan’t behave yerself. What’re ye goin’ t’do -about it?” - -Possibly the one in error would relent a little and begin arguing with -the parent, charging unfairness, cruelty and the like. - -“Here now, don’t ye be taalkin’ to yer mother like that! Ye’re not old -enough to be doin’ that. An’ what’s more, don’t let me ketch ye out on -the streets er her complainin’ to me again. If ye do I’ll send one av me -men around to bring ye in. This is the last now. D’ye waant to spend a -few nights in a cell? Well, then! Now be gettin’ out av here an’ don’t -let me hear any more about ye. Not a word. I’ve had enough now. Out with -ye!” - -And he would glower and grow red and pop-eyed and fairly roar, shoving -them tempestuously out—only, after the victim had gone, he would lean -back in his chair and wipe his forehead and sigh: “’Tis tough, the -bringin’ up av childern, hereabouts especially. Ye can’t be blamin’ them -fer waantin’ to be out on the streets, an’ yet ye can’t let ’em out -aither, exactly. It’s hard to tell what to do with ’em. I’ve been -taalkin’ like that fer years now to one an’ another. ’Tis all the good -it does. Ye can’t do much fer ’em hereabouts.” - -It was during this period, this summer time and fall, that I came in -contact with some of the most interesting characters, newspaper men -especially, flotsam and jetsam who drifted in here from other newspaper -centers and then drifted out again, newspaper men so intelligent and -definite in some respects that they seemed worthy of any position or -station in life and yet so indifferent and errant or so poorly placed in -spite of their efforts and capacities as to cause me to despair for the -reward of merit anywhere—intellectual merit, I mean. For some of these -men while fascinating were the rankest kind of failures, drunkards, drug -fiends, hypochondriacs. Many of them had stayed too long in the -profession, which is a young man’s game at best, and others had wasted -their opportunities dreaming of a chance fortune no doubt and then had -taken to drink or drugs. Still others, young men like myself, drifters -and uncertain as to their future, were just finding out how unprofitable -the newspaper game was and in consequence were cynical, waspish and -moody. - -I am not familiar with many professions and so cannot say whether any of -the others abound in this same wealth of eccentric capacity and -understanding, or offer as little reward. Certainly all the newspaper -offices I have ever known sparkled with these exceptional men, few of -whom ever seemed to do very well, and no paper I ever worked on paid -wages anywhere near equal to the services rendered or the hours exacted. -It was always a hard, driving game, with the ash-heap as the reward for -the least weakening of energy or ability; and at the same time these -newspapers were constantly spouting editorially about kindness, justice, -charity, a full reward for labor, and were getting up fresh-air funds -and so on for those not half as deserving as their employees, but—and -this is the point—likely to bring them increased circulation. In the -short while I was in the newspaper profession I met many men who seemed -to be thoroughly sound intellectually, quite free, for the most part, -from the narrow, cramping conventions of their day, and yet they never -seemed to get on very well. - -I remember one man in particular, Clark I think his name was, who -arrived on the scene just about this time and who fascinated me. He was -so able and sure of touch mentally and from an editorial point of view, -and yet financially and in every material way he was such a failure. He -came from Kansas City or Omaha while I was on the _Republic_ and had -worked in many, many places before that. He was a stocky, dark, clerkly -figure, with something of the manager or owner or leader about him, a -most shrewd and capable-looking person. And when he first came to the -_Republic_ he seemed destined to rise rapidly and never to want for -anything, so much self-control and force did he appear to have. He was a -hard worker, quiet, unostentatious, and once I had gained his -confidence, he gradually revealed a tale of past position and comfort -which, verified as it was by Wandell and Williams, was startling when -contrasted with his present position. Although he was not much over -forty he had been editor or managing editor of several important papers -in the West but had lost them through some primary disaster which had -caused him to take to drink—his wife’s unfaithfulness, I believe—and his -inability in recent years to stay sober for more than three months at a -stretch. In some other city he had been an important factor in politics. -Here he was, still clean and spruce apparently (when I first saw him, at -any rate), going about his work with a great deal of energy, writing the -most satisfactory newspaper stories; and then, once two or three months -of such labor had gone by, disappearing. When I inquired of Williams and -Wandell as to his whereabouts the former stared at me with his one eye -and smiled, then lifted his fingers in the shape of a glass to his -mouth. Wandell merely remarked: “Drink, I think. He may show up and he -may not. He had a few weeks’ wages when he left.” - -I did not hear anything more of him for some weeks, when suddenly one -day, in that wretched section of St. Louis beloved of Dick and Peter as -a source of literary material, I was halted by a figure which I assumed -to be one of the lowest of the low. A short, matted, dirty black beard -concealed a face that bore no resemblance to Clark. A hat that looked as -though it might have been lifted out of an ash-barrel was pulled -slouchily and defiantly over long uncombed black hair. His face was -filthy, as were his clothes and shoes, slimy even. An old brown coat -(how come by, I wonder?) was marked by a greenish slime across the back -and shoulders, slime that could only have come from a gutter. - -“Don’t you know me, Dreiser?” he queried in a deep, rasping voice, a -voice so rusty that it sounded as though it had not been used for years -“—Clark, Clark of the _Republic_. You know me——” and then when I stared -in amazement he added shrewdly: “I’ve been sick and in a hospital. You -haven’t a dollar about you, have you? I have to rest a little and get -myself in shape again before I can go to work.” - -“Well, of all things!” I exclaimed in amazement, and then: “I’ll be -damned!” I could not help laughing: he looked so queer, impossible -almost. A stage tramp could scarcely have done better. I gave him the -dollar. “What in the world are you doing—drinking?” and then, overawed -by the memory of his past efficiency and force I could not go on. It was -too astonishing. - -“Yes, I’ve been drinking,” he admitted, a little defiantly, I thought, -“but I’ve been sick too, just getting out now. I got pneumonia there in -the summer and couldn’t work. I’ll be all right after a while. What’s -news at the _Republic_?” - -“Nothing.” - -He mumbled something about having played in bad luck, that he would soon -be all right again, then ambled up the wretched rickety street and -disappeared. - -I hustled out of that vicinity as fast as I could. I was so startled and -upset by this that I hurried back to the lobby of the Southern Hotel (my -favorite cure for all despondent days), where all was brisk, -comfortable, gay. Here I purchased a newspaper and sat down in a -rocking-chair. Here at least was no sign of poverty or want. In order to -be rid of that sense of failure and degradation which had crept over me -I took a drink or two myself. That any one as capable as Clark could -fall so low in so short a time was quite beyond me. The still strongly -puritan and moralistic streak in me was shocked beyond measure, and for -days I could do little but contrast the figure of the man I had seen -about the _Republic_ office with that I had met in that street of -degraded gin-mills and tumbledown tenements. Could people really vary so -greatly and in so short a time? What must be the nature of their minds -if they could do that? Was mine like that? Would it become so? For days -thereafter I was wandering about in spirit with this man from gin-mill -to gin-mill and lodging-house to lodging-house, seeing him drink at -scummy bars and lying down at night on a straw pallet in some wretched -hole. - -And then there was Rodenberger, strange, amazing Rodenberger, poet, -editorial writer and what not, who when I first met him had a little -weekly editorial paper for which he raised the money somehow (I have -forgotten its name) and in which he poured forth his views on life and -art and nature in no uncertain terms. How he could write! (He was -connected with some drug company, by birth or marriage, which may have -helped to sustain him. I never knew anything definite concerning his -private life.) As I view him now, Rodenberger was a man in whom -imagination and logic existed in such a confusing, contesting way as to -augur fatalism and (from a worldly or material point of view) failure. -He was constantly varying between a state of extreme sobriety and -Vigorous mental energy, and debauches which lasted for weeks and which -included drink, houses of prostitution, morphine, and I know not what -else. - -One sunny summer morning in July or August, I found him standing at the -corner of Sixth and Chestnut outside the LaClede drugstore quite -stupefied with drink or something. - -“Hello, Rody,” I called when I saw him. “What’s ailing you? You’re not -drunk again, are you?” - -“Drunk,” he replied with a slight sardonic motion of the hand and an -equally faint curl of the lip, “and what’s more, I’m glad of it. I don’t -have to think about myself, or St. Louis, or you, when I’m drunk. And -what’s more,” and here he interjected another slight motion of the hand -and hiccoughed, “I’m taking dope, and I’m glad of that. I got all the -dope I want now, right here in my little old vest pocket, and I’m going -to take all I want of it,” and he tapped the pocket significantly. Then, -in a boasting, contentious spirit, he drew forth a white pillbox and -slowly opened it and revealed to my somewhat astonished gaze some thirty -or forty small while pills, two or three of which he proceeded to lift -toward his mouth. - -In my astonishment and sympathy and horror I decided to save him if I -could, so I struck his hand a smart blow, knocking the pills all over -the sidewalk. Without a word of complaint save a feeble “Zat so?” he -dropped to his hands and knees and began crawling here and there after -them as fast as he could, picking them up and putting them in his mouth, -while I, equally determined, began jumping here and there and crushing -them under my heels. - -“Rody, for God’s sake! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Get up!” - -“I’ll show you!” he cried determinedly if somewhat recklessly. “I’ll eat -’em all! I’ll eat ’em all! G—— D—— you!” and he swallowed all that he -had thus far been able to collect. - -I saw him dead before me in no time at all, or thought I did. - -“Here, Johnson,” I called to another of our friends who came up just -then, “help me with Rody, will you? He’s drunk, and he’s got a box of -morphine pills and he’s trying to take them. I knocked them out of his -hand and now he’s eaten a lot of them.” - -“Here, Rody,” he said, pulling him to his feet and holding him against -the wall, “stop this! What the hell’s the matter with you?” and then he -turned to me: “Maybe they’re not morphine. Why don’t you ask the -druggist? If they are we’d better be getting him to the hospital.” - -“They’re morphine all right,” gurgled the victim. “Dont-cha worry—I know -morphine all right, and I’ll eat ’em all,” and he began struggling with -Johnson. - -At the latter’s suggestion I hurried into the drugstore, the proprietor -and clerk of which were friends to all of us, and inquired. They assured -me that they were morphine and when I told them that Rodenberger had -swallowed about a dozen they insisted that we bring him in and then call -an ambulance, while they prepared an emetic of some kind. It happened -that the head physician of the St. Louis City Hospital, Dr. Heinie -Marks, was also a friend of all newspaper men (what free advertising we -used to give him!), and to him I now turned for aid, calling him on the -telephone. - -“Bring him out! Bring him out!” he said. Then: “Wait; I’ll send the -wagon.” - -By this time Johnson, with the aid of the clerk and the druggist, had -brought Rodenberger inside and caused him to drink a quantity of -something, whereupon we gazed upon him for signs of his approaching -demise. By now he was very pale and limp and seemed momentarily to grow -more so. To our intense relief, however, the city ambulance soon came -and a smart young interne in white took charge. Then we saw Rodenberger -hauled away, to be pumped out later and detained for days. I was told -afterward by the doctor that he had taken enough of the pills to end him -had he not been thoroughly pumped out and treated. Yet within a week or -so he was once more up and around, fate, in the shape of myself and -Johnson, having intervened. And many a time thereafter he turned up at -this selfsame corner as sound and smiling as ever. - -Once, when I ventured to reproach him for this and other follies, he -merely said: - -“All in the day’s wash, my boy, all in the day’s wash. If I was so -determined to go you should have let me alone. Heaven only knows what -trouble you have stored up for me now by keeping me here when I wanted -to go. That may have been a divine call! But—Kismet! Allah is Allah! -Let’s go and have a drink!” And we adjourned to Phil Hackett’s bar, -where we were soon surrounded by fellow-bibbers who spent most of their -time looking out through the cool green lattices of that rest room upon -the hot street outside. - -I may add that Rodenberger’s end was not such as might be expected by -the moralists. Ten years later he had completely reformed his habits and -entered the railroad business, having attained to a considerable -position in one of the principal roads running out of St. Louis. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVI - - -FOR years past during the summer months the _Republic_ had been -conducting a summer charity of some kind, a fresh-air fund, in support -of which it attempted every summer to invent and foster some quick -money-raising scheme. This year it had taken the form of that musty old -chestnut, a baseball game, to be played between two local fraternities, -the fattest men of one called the Owls and the leanest of another known -as the Elks. The hope of the _Republic_ was to work up interest in this -startling novelty by a humorous handling of it so as to draw a large -crowd to the baseball grounds. Before I had even heard of it this task -had been assigned to two or three others, a new man each day, in the -hope of extracting fresh bits of humor, but so far with but indifferent -results. - -One day, then, I was handed a clipping concerning this proposed game -that had been written the preceding day by another member of the staff -and which was headed “Blood on the Moon.” It purported to narrate the -preliminary mutterings and grumblings of those who were to take part in -the contest. It was not so much an amusing picture as a news item, and I -did not think very much of it; but since I had been warned by Williams -that I was about to be called upon to produce the next day’s burst, and -that it must be humorous, I was by no means inclined to judge it too -harshly.... The efforts of one’s predecessor always appear more forceful -as one’s own threaten to prove inadequate. A little later Wandell -proceeded to outline to me most of the conditions which surrounded this -contest. “See if you can’t get some fun into it. You must do it. Some -one has to. I depend on you for this. Make us laugh,” and he smiled a -dry, almost frosty smile. “Laugh!” I thought. “Good Lord, how am I to -make anybody laugh? I never wrote anything funny in my life!” - -Nevertheless, being put to it for this afternoon (he had given me no -other assignment, fancying no doubt that I might have a hard time with -this), and being the soul of duty, I went to my desk to think it over. -Not an idea came to me. It seemed to me that nothing could be duller -than this, a baseball game between fat and lean men; yet if I didn’t -write something it would be a black mark against me and if I did and it -proved a piece of trash I should sink equally low in the estimation of -my superior. I took my pencil and began scribbling a possible -introduction, wondering how one achieved humor when one had it not. -After writing aimlessly for a half-hour or so I finally re-examined the -texts of my predecessors of previous days and then sought to take the -same tack. Only, instead of describing the aspirations and oppositions -of the two rival organizations in general terms, I assumed a specific -interest and plotting on the part of certain of their chief officers, -who even now, as I proceeded to assert and with names and places given -in different parts of the city, were spending days and nights devising -ways and means of outwitting the enemy. Thoughts of rubber baseball -bats, baskets and nets in which flies might be caught, secret electric -wiring under the diamond between the bases to put “pep” into the fat -runners, seemed to have some faint trace of humor in them, and these I -now introduced as being feverishly worked out in various secret places -in order that the great game might not be lost. As I wrote, building up -purely imaginary characteristics for each one involved (I did not know -any of them), I myself began to grow interested and amused. It all -seemed so ridiculous, such trash, and yet the worse I made it the better -it seemed. At last I finished it, but upon re-reading it I was disturbed -by the coarse horse-play of it all. “This will never get by,” I thought. -“Wandell will think it’s rotten.” But having by now come to a rather -friendly understanding with Williams, I decided to take it over and ask -him so that in case I had failed I might try again. - -Wearily he eyed me with his one eye, for already he had been editing -this for days, then leaned back in his chair and began to read it over. -At first he did not seem to be much interested, but after the first -paragraph, which he examined with a blank expression, he smiled and -finally chortled: “This is pretty good, yes. You needn’t worry about it; -I think it’ll do. Leave it with me.” Then he began to edit it. Later in -the afternoon when Wandell had come in to give out the evening -assignments I saw Williams gather it up and go in to him. After a time -he came out smiling, and in a little While Wandell called me in. - -“Not bad, not bad,” he said, tapping the manuscript lightly. “You’ve got -the right idea, I think. I’ll let you do that for a while afternoons -until we get up on it. You needn’t do anything else—just that, if you do -it well enough.” - -I was pleased, for judging by the time it had taken to do this (not more -than two hours) I should have most of my afternoons to myself. I saw -visions of a late breakfast, idling in my room, walks after I had done -with my work and before I returned to the office. Curiously enough, this -trivial thing, undertaken at first in great doubt and with no sense of -ability and with no real equipment for it, nevertheless proved for me -the most fortunate thing I had thus far done. It was not so much that it -was brilliant, or even especially well done, as that what I did fell in -with the idle summer mood of the city or with the contesting -organizations and the readers of the _Republic_. Congratulatory letters -began to arrive. Pleased individuals whose names had been humorously -mentioned began to call up the city editor, or the managing editor, or -even the editor-in-chief, and voice their approval. In a trice and -almost before I knew it, I was a personage, especially in newspaper -circles. - -“We’ve got the stuff now, all right,” Wandell cackled most violently one -evening, at the same time slapping me genially on the shoulder. “This’ll -do it, I’m sure. A few weeks, and we’ll get a big crowd and a lot of -publicity. Just you stick to the way you’re doing this now. Don’t change -your style. We’ve got ’em coming now.” - -I was really amazed. - -And to add to it, Wandell’s manner toward me changed. Hitherto, despite -his but poorly concealed efforts, he had been distant, brusque, -dictatorial, superior. Now of a sudden he was softer, more confidential. - -“I have a friend up the street here—Frank Hewe, an awfully nice fellow. -He’s the second assistant of this or that or the other such company. In -one of these comic blurbs of yours don’t you think you could ring him in -in some way? He’s an Elk and I’m sure the mention would tickle him to -death.” - -I saw the point of Mr. Wandell’s good nature. He was handing round some -favors on his own account. - -But since it was easy for me to do it and could not injure the text in -any way, and seemed to popularize the paper and myself immensely, I was -glad to do it. Each evening, when at six or seven I chose to amble in, -having spent the afternoon at my room or elsewhere idling, my text all -done in an hour as a rule, my small chief would beam on me most -cordially. - -“Whatcha got there? Another rib-tickler? Let’s see. Well, go get your -dinner, and if you don’t want to come back go and see a show. There’s -not much doing tonight anyhow, and I’d like to keep you fresh. Don’t -stay up too late, and turn me in another good one tomorrow.” - -So it went. - -In a trice and as if by magic I was lifted into an entirely different -realm. The ease of those hours! Citizens of local distinction wanted to -meet me. I was asked by Wandell one afternoon to come to the Southern -bar in order that Colonel So-and-So, the head of this, that or the other -thing, as well as some others, might meet me. I was told that this, that -and the other person here thought I must be clever, a fool, or a genius. -I was invited to a midnight smoker at some country club. The local -newspaper men who gathered at the LaClede daily all knew, and finding me -in high favor with Phil Hackett, the lessee of the hotel bar whose name -I had mentioned once, now laughed with me and drank at my expense—or -rather at that of the proprietor, for I was grandly told by him that I -“could pay for no drinks there,” which kept me often from going there at -all. As the days went on I was assured that owing to my efforts the game -was certain to be a big success, that it was the most successful stunt -the _Republic_ had ever pulled and that it would net the fund several -thousand dollars. - -For four or five weeks then it seemed to me as though I were walking on -air. Life was so different, so pleasant these hot, bright days, with -everybody pleased with me and my name as a clever man—a humorist!—being -bandied about. Some of my new admirers were so pleased with me that they -asked me to come to their homes to see them. I was becoming a personage. -Hackett of the LaClede having asked me casually one day where I lived, I -was surprised that night in my room by a large wicker hamper containing -champagne, whiskey and cordials. I transferred it to the office of the -_Republic_ for the reportorial staff, with my compliments. - -My handling of the fat-lean baseball game having established me as a -feature writer of some ability, the _Republic_ decided to give me -another feature assignment. There had been in progress a voting contest -which embraced the whole State and which was to decide which of many -hundreds of school-teachers, the favorites out of how many districts in -the State I cannot now recall, were to be sent to Chicago to see the -World’s Fair for two or more weeks at the _Republic’s_ expense. In -addition, a reporter or traveling correspondent was to be sent with the -party to report its daily doings and that reporter’s comments were to be -made a daily news feature; and that reporter was to be myself. I was not -seeking it, had not even heard of it, but according to Wandell, who was -selecting the man for the management, I was the one most likely to give -a satisfactory picture of the life at the great Fair as well as render -the _Republic_ a service in picturing the doings of these teachers. An -agent of the business manager was also going along to look after the -practical details, and also the city superintendent of schools. I -welcomed this opportunity to see the World’s Fair, which was then in its -heyday and filling the newspapers. - -“I don’t mind telling you,” Wandell observed to me a few days before the -final account of the baseball game was to be written, “that your work on -this ball game has been good. Everybody is pleased. Now, there’s a -little excursion we’re going to send up to Chicago, and I’m going to -send you along on that for a rest. Mr. ——, our business manager, will -tell you all about it. You see him about transportation and expenses.” - -“When am I to go?” I asked. - -“Thursday. Thursday night.” - -“Then I don’t have to see the ball game?” - -“Oh, that’s all right. You’ve done the important part of that. Let some -one else write it up.” - -I smiled at the compliment. I went downstairs and had somebody explain -to me what it was the paper was going to do and congratulated myself. -Now I was to have a chance to visit the World’s Fair, which had not yet -opened when I left Chicago. I could look up my father, whom I had -neglected since my mother’s death, as well as such other members of the -family as were still living in Chicago; but, most important, I could go -around to the _Globe_ there and “blow” to my old confrères about my -present success. All I had to do was to go along and observe what the -girls did and how they enjoyed themselves and then write it up. - -I went up the street humming and rejoicing, and finally landed in the -“art department” of my friends. - -“I’m being sent to Chicago to the World’s Fair,” I said gleefully. - -“Bully for you,” was the unanimous return. “Let’s hope you have a good -time.” - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVII - - -AS the time drew near, though, the thought of being a sort of literary -chaperon to a lot of school-teachers, probably all of them homely and -uninteresting, was not as cheering as it might have been. I wondered how -I should manage to be civil and interesting to so many, how I was to -extract news out of them. Yet the attitude of the business manager and -the managing editor, as well as the editor-in-chief or publisher, Mr. -Knapp, to whom I was now introduced by my city editor, was enough to -convince me that whatever I thought of it I was plainly rising in their -esteem. Although no word was said about any increase in pay, which I -still consider the limit of beggarly, pennywise policy, these -magnificoes were most cordial, smiled and congratulated me on my work -and then turned me over to the man who had the financing of the trip in -charge. He reminded me a good deal of a banker or church elder, small, -dark, full-whiskered, solemn, affable, and assured me that he was glad -that I had been appointed, that I was the ideal man for the place, and -that he would see to it that anything I needed to make my trip pleasant -would be provided. I could scarcely believe that I was so important. - -After asking me to go and see the superintendent of schools, also of the -party as guest of the _Republic_, he said he would send to me a Mr. -Dean, who would be his agent en route to look after everything—baggage, -fares, hotels, meals. The latter came and at once threw a wet blanket -over me: he was so utterly dull and commonplace. His clothes, his shoes, -his loud tie and his muddy, commonplace intellect all irritated me -beyond measure. Something he said—“Now, of course, we all want to do -everything we can to please these ladies and make them happy”—irritated -me. The usual pastoral, supervisory stuff, I thought, and I at once -decided that I did not want him to bother me in any way. “What! Did this -horrible bounder assume that he was regulating my conduct on this trip, -or that I was going out of my way to accommodate myself to him and his -theory of how the trip should be conducted, or to accept him as a social -equal? ‘We must’ indeed!—I, Theodore Dreiser, the well-known newspaper -writer of St. Louis! The effrontery! Well, he would get scant attention -from me, and the more he let me alone the better it would be for him and -all of us!” - -And now Wandell also began to irritate me by attempting to give me -minute instructions as to just what was wanted and how I was to write -it, although, as I understood it, I was now working for the managing -editor who was to have the material edited in the telegraph department. -Besides, I thought that I was now entitled to a little leeway and -discretion in the choice of what I should report. The idea of making it -all advertising for the _Republic_ and myself a literary wet-nurse to a -school party was a little too much. - -However, I bustled down to the train that was waiting to carry this -party of damsels to Chicago and the World’s Fair, a solid Pullman train -which left St. Louis at dusk and arrived in Chicago early the next -morning. The fifth of the Pullmans was reserved to carry the -school-teachers and their chaperons, Mr. Soldan, superintendent of -schools, Mr. Dean, the business-manager-representative, and myself. I -entered the car wondering of course what the result of such a temporary -companionship with so many girls might be. They were all popular, hence -beautiful, prize-winners, as I had heard; but my pessimistic mind had -registered a somewhat depressing conception of the ordinary -school-mistress and I did not expect much. - -For once in my life I was agreeably disappointed. These were young, -buxom Missouri school-teachers and as attractive as that profession will -permit. I was no sooner seated in a gaudy car than one of the end doors -opened and there was ushered in by the porter a pretty, rosy-cheeked, -black-haired girl of perhaps twenty-four. This was a good beginning. -Immediately thereafter there came in a tall, fair girl with light brown -hair and blue eyes. Others now entered, blondes and brunettes, stout and -slender, with various intermediate grades or types. Instead of a -mounting contempt I suddenly began to suffer from a sickening sense of -inability to hold my own in the face of so many pretty girls. What could -I do with twenty girls? How write about them? Maybe the -business-manager-representative or the superintendent would not come on -this train and I should be left to introduce these girls to each other! -God! I should have to find out their names, and I had not thought to -inquire at the office! - -Fortunately for my peace of mind a large, rather showily dressed man -with big soft ruddy hands decorated with several rings and a full oval -face tinted with health, now entered by the front door and beamed -cheerfully upon all. - -“Ah, here we are now,” he began with the impressive air of one in -authority, going up to the first maiden he saw. “I see you have arrived -safely, Miss—ah—C——. I’m glad to see you again. How are you?” We went on -to another: “And here is Miss W——! Well, I am glad. I read in the -_Republic_ that you had won.” - -I realized that this was the Professor Soldan so earnestly recommended -to me, the superintendent of schools and one upon whom I was to comment. -I rather liked him. - -An engine went puffing and clanging by on a neighboring track. I gazed -out of the window. It seemed essential for me to begin doing something -but I did not know how to begin. Suddenly the large jeweled hand was -laid on my shoulder and the professor stood over me. “This must be Mr. -Dreiser, of the _Republic_. Your business manager, Mr. ——, phoned me -this morning that you were coming. You must let me introduce you to all -these young ladies. We want to get the formalities over and be on easy -terms.” - -I bowed heavily for I felt as though I were turning to stone. The -prettiness and sparkle of these girls all chatting and laughing had -fairly done for me. I followed the professor as one marches to the -gallows and he began at one end of the car and introduced me to one girl -after another as though it were a state affair of some kind. I felt like -a boob. I was flustered and yet delighted by his geniality and the fact -that he was helping me over a very ticklish situation. I envied him his -case and self-possession. He soon betook himself elsewhere, leaving me -to converse as best I might with a pretty black-haired Irish girl whose -eyes made me wish to be agreeable. And now, idiot, I struggled -desperately for bright things to say. How did one entertain a pretty -girl, anyhow? The girl came to my rescue by commenting on the nature of -the contest and the difficulties she had had. She hadn’t thought she -would win at all. Some others joined in, and before I knew it the train -was out of the station and on its way. The porter was closing the -windows for the long tunnel, the girls were sinking into comfortable -attitudes, and there was a general air of relaxation and good nature. -Before East St. Louis was reached a general conversation was in -progress, and by the time the train was a half-hour out a party of -familiars had gathered in the little bridal chamber, which was at the -rear of the car, laughing and gesticulating. But I was not of it, nor -was the girl with whom I was chatting. - -“Why don’t you come back here, Myra?” called a voice. - -“Having lots of fun up there?” called another. - -“Do come back, for goodness’ sake! Don’t try to monopolize one whole -man.” - -I felt my legs going from under me. Could this be true? Must I now go -back there and try to face six or seven? Stumblingly I followed Myra, -and at the door stopped and looked in. It was full of pretty girls, my -partner of the moment before now chattering lightly among them. “I’m -gone,” I thought. “It’s all off. Now for the grand collapse and silence! -Which way shall I turn? To whom?” - -“There’s room for one more here,” said a Juney blonde, making a place -for me. - -I could not refuse this challenge. “I’m the one,” I said weakly, and -sank heavily beside her. She looked at me encouragingly, as did the -others, and at a vast expense of energy and will power I managed to -achieve a smile. It was pathetic. - -“Isn’t train-riding just glorious?” exclaimed one of these bright-faced -imps exuberantly. “I bet I haven’t been on a train twice before in all -my life, and just look at me! I do it all right, don’t I? I’d just love -to travel. I wish I could travel all the time.” - -“Oh, don’t you, though!” echoed the girl who was sitting beside me and -whom up to now I had scarcely noticed. “Do you think she looks so nice -riding?” - -I cannot recall what I answered. It may have been witty—if so it was an -accident. - -“What do you call the proper surroundings?” put in a new voice in answer -to something that was said, which same drew my attention to limpid blue -eyes, a Cupid’s bow mouth and a wealth of corn-colored hair. - -“These,” I finally achieved gallantly, gazing about the compartment and -at my companions. A burst of applause followed. I was coming to. Yet I -was still bewildered by the bouquet of faces about me. Already the idea -of the dreary school-teachers had been dissipated: these were -prize-winners. Look where I would I seemed to see a new type of -prettiness confronting me. It was like being in the toils of those -nymphs in the Ring of the Nibelungen, yet I had no desire to escape, -wishing to stay now and see how I could “make out” as a Lothario. Indeed -at this I worked hard. I did my best to gaze gayly and captivatingly -into pretty eyes of various colors. They all gazed amusedly back. I was -almost the only man; they were out for a lark. What would you? - -“If I had my wishes now I’d wish for just one thing,” I volunteered, -expecting to arouse curiosity. - -“Which one?” asked the girl with the brown eyes and piquant little face -who wished to travel forever. Her look was significant. - -“This one,” I said, running my finger around in a circle to include them -all and yet stopping at none. - -“We’re not won yet, though,” said the girl smirkily. - -“Couldn’t you be?” I asked smartly. - -“Not all at once, anyhow. Could we?” she asked, speaking for the crowd. - -I found myself poor at repartee. “It will seem all at once, though, when -it happens, won’t it?” I finally managed to return. “Isn’t it always ‘so -sudden’?” I was surprising myself. - -“Aren’t you smart!” said the blue-eyed girl beside me. - -“Oh, that’s clever, isn’t it?” said the girl with the corn-colored hair. - -I gazed in her direction. Beside her sat a maiden whom I had but dimly -noticed. She was in white, with a mass of sunny red hair. Her eyes were -almond-shaped, liquid and blue-gray. Her nose was straight and fine, her -lips sweetly curved. She seemed bashful and retiring. At her bosom was a -bouquet of pink roses, but one had come loose. - -“Oh, your flowers!” I exclaimed. - -“Let me give you one,” she replied, laughing. I had not heard her voice -before and I liked it. - -“Certainly,” I said. Then to the others: “You see, I’ll take anything I -can get.” She drew a rose from her bosom and held it out toward me. -“Won’t you put it on?” I asked smartly. - -She leaned over and began to fasten it. She worked a moment and then -looked at me, making, as I thought, a sheep’s eye at me. - -“You may have my place,” said the girl next me, feigning to help her, -and she took it. - -The conversation waxed even freer after this, although for me I felt -that it had now taken a definite turn.... I was talking for her benefit. -We were still in the midst of this when the conductor passed through and -after him Mr. Dean, middle-aged, dusty, assured, advisory. - -“These are the people,” he said. “They are all in one party.” He called -me aside and we sat down, he explaining cheerfully and volubly the -trouble he was having keeping everything in order. I could have murdered -him. - -“I’m looking out for the baggage and the hotel bills and all,” he -insisted. “In the morning we’ll be met by a tally-ho and ride out to the -hotel.” - -I was thinking of my splendid bevy of girls and the delightful time I -had been having. - -“Well, that’ll be fine, won’t it?” I said wearily. “Is that all?” - -“Oh, we have it all planned out,” he went on. “It’s going to be a fine -trip.” - -I did my best to show that I had no desire to talk, but still he kept -on. He wanted to meet the teachers and I had to introduce him. -Fortunately he became interested in one small group and I sidled -away—only to find my original group considerably reduced. Some had gone -to the dressingroom, others were arranging their parcels about their -unmade berths. The porter came in and began to make them up. I looked -ruefully about me. - -“Well, our little group has broken up,” I said at last to the girl of my -choice as I came up to where she was sitting. - -“Yes. It’s getting late. But I’m not sleepy yet.” - -We dropped into an easy conversation, and I learned that she was from -Missouri and taught in a little town not far from St. Louis. She -explained to me how she had come to win, and I told her how ignorant I -had been of the whole affair up to four days ago. She said that friends -had bought hundreds of _Republics_ in order to get the coupons. It -seemed a fine thing to me for a girl to be so popular. - -“You’ve never been to Chicago, then?” I asked. - -“Oh no. I’ve never been anywhere really. I’m just a simple country girl, -you know. I’ve always wanted to go, though.” - -She fascinated me. She seemed so direct, truthful, sympathetic. - -“You’ll enjoy it,” I said. “It’s worth seeing. I was in Chicago when the -Fair was being built. My home is there.” - -“Then you’ll stay with your home-folks, won’t you?” she asked, using a -word for family to which I was not accustomed. It touched a chord of -sympathy. I was not very much in touch with my family any more but the -way she seemed to look on hers made me wish that I were. - -“Well, not exactly. They live over on the west side. I’ll go to see -them, though.” - -I was thinking that now I had her out of that sparkling group she seemed -more agreeable than before, much more interesting, more subdued and -homelike. - -She arose to leave me. “I want to get some of my things before the -porter puts them away,” she explained. - -I stepped out of her way. She tripped up the aisle and I looked after -her, fascinated. Of a sudden she seemed quite the most interesting of -all those here, simple, pretty, vigorous and with a kind of tact and -grace that was impressive. Also I felt an intense something about her -that was concealed by an air of supreme innocence and maidenly reserve. -I went out to the smokingroom, where I sat alone looking out of the -window. - -“What a delightful girl,” I thought, with a feeling of intense -satisfaction. “And I have the certainty of seeing her again in the -morning!” - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - -The next morning I was awake early, stirred by the thoughts of Chicago, -the Fair, Miss W—— (my favorite), as well as the group of attractive -creatures who now formed a sort of background for her. One of the -characteristics of my very youthful temperament at that time was the -power to invest every place I had ever left with a romance and -strangeness such as might have attached to something abandoned, say, a -thousand or two years before and which I was now revisiting for the -first time to find it nearly all done over. So it was now in my attitude -toward Chicago. I had been away for only eight or nine months, and still -I expected—what did I not expect?—the whole skyline and landscape to be -done over, or all that I had known done away with. Going into Chicago I -studied every street and crossing and house and car. How sad to think I -had ever had to leave it, to leave Alice, my home, my father, all my -relatives and old friends! Where was E——, A——, T——, my father? At -thought of the latter I was deeply moved, for had I not left him about a -year before and without very much ceremony at the time I had chosen to -follow the fortunes of my sister C——? Now that I looked back on it all -from the vantage point of a year’s work I was much chastened and began -to think how snippy and unkind I had been. Poor, tottering, broken soul, -I thought. I could see him then as he really was, a warm, generous and -yet bigoted and ignorant soul, led captive in his childhood to a -brainless theory and having no power within himself to break that chain, -and now wandering distrait and forlorn amid a storm of difficulties: -age, the death of his wife, the flight of his children, doubt as to -their salvation, poverty, a declining health. - -I can see him now, a thin grasshopper of a man, brooding wearily with -those black-brown Teutonic eyes of his, as sad as failure itself. What -thoughts! What moods! He was very much like one of those old men whom -Rembrandt has portrayed, wrinkled, sallow, leathery. My father’s -peculiarly German hair and beard were always carefully combed and -brushed, the hair back over his forehead like Nietzsche’s, the beard -resting reddishly on his chest. His clothes were always loose and -ill-fitting, being bought for durability, not style, or made over from -abandoned clothes of some one—my brother Paul or my sister M——’s -husband. He always wore an old and very carefully preserved black derby -hat, very wide of brim and out of style, which he pulled low over his -deep-set weary eyes. I always wondered where and when he had bought it. -On this trip I offered to buy him a new one, but he preferred to use the -money for a mass for the repose of my good mother’s soul! Under his arm -or in one of his capacious pockets was always a Catholic prayerbook from -which he read prayers as familiar to him as his own hands, yet from the -mumbling repetition of which he extracted some comfort, as does the -Hindu from meditating upon space or time. In health he was always -fluttering to one or another of a score of favorite Catholic churches, -each as commonplace as the other, and there, before some trashy plaster -image of some saint or virgin as dead or helpless as his own past, -making supplication for what?—peace in death, the reconversion and right -conduct of his children, the salvation of his own and my mother’s soul? -Debts were his great misery, as I had always known. If one died and left -unpaid an old bill of some kind one had to stay in purgatory so much -longer! - -Riding into Chicago this morning I speculated as to the thinness of his -hands as I had known them, the tremulousness of his inquiries, the -appeal in his sad resigned eyes, whence all power to compel or convince -had long since gone. In the vast cosmic flight of force, flowing from -what heart we know not but in which as little corks our suns and planets -float, it is possible that there may be some care, an equation, a -balancing of the scales of suffering and pleasure. I hope so. If not I -know not the reason for tears or those emotions with which so many of us -salve the memory of seemingly immedicable ills. If immedicable, why cry? - -I sought Miss W——, who was up before me and sitting beside her section -window. I was about to go and talk with her when my attention was -claimed by other girls. This bevy could not very well afford to see the -attention of the only man on board so easily monopolized. There were so -many pretty faces among them that I wavered. I talked idly among them, -interested to see what overtures and how much of an impression I might -make. My natural love of womankind made them all inviting. - -When the train drew into Chicago we were met by a tally-ho, which the -obliging Mr. Dean had been kind enough to announce to each and every one -of us as the train stopped. The idea of riding to the World’s Fair in -such a thing and with this somewhat conspicuous party of school-teachers -went very much against the grain. Being very conscious of my personal -dignity in the presence of others and knowing the American and -middle-West attitude toward all these new and persistently derided toys -and pleasures of the effete East and England, I was inclined to look -upon this one as out of place in Chicago. Besides, a canvas strip on the -coach advertising the nature of this expedition infuriated me and seemed -spiritually involved with the character of Mr. Dean. That bounder had -done this, I was sure. I wondered whether the sophisticated and -well-groomed superintendent of schools would lend himself to any such -thing when plainly it was to be written up in the _Republic_, but since -he did not seem to mind it I was mollified; in fact, he took it all with -a charming gayety and grace which eventually succeeded in putting my own -silly provincialism and pride to rout. He sat up in front with me and -the driver discussing philosophy, education, the Fair, a dozen things, -during which I made a great pretense at wise deductions and a wider -reading than I had ever had. - -Once clear of the depot and turning into Adams Street, we were off -behind six good horses through as interesting a business section as one -might wish to see, its high buildings (the earliest and most numerous in -America) and its mass of congested traffic making a brisk summer morning -scene. I was reëngaged by Michigan Avenue, that splendid boulevard with -its brief vista of the lake, which was whipped to cotton-tops this -bright morning by a fresh wind, and then the long residence-lined avenue -to the south with its wealth of new and pretentious homes, its smart -paving and lighting, its crush of pleasure traffic hurrying townward or -to the Fair. Within an hour we were assigned rooms in a comfortable -hotel near the Fair grounds, one of those hastily and yet fairly well -constructed buildings which later were changed into flats or apartments. -One wall of this hotel, as I now discovered, the side on which my room -was, faced a portion of the Fair grounds, and from my windows I could -see some of its classic façades, porticoes, roofs, domes, lagoons. All -at once and out of nothing in this dingy city of six or seven hundred -thousand which but a few years before had been a wilderness of wet grass -and mud flats, and by this lake which but a hundred years before was a -lone silent waste, had now been reared this vast and harmonious -collection of perfectly constructed and snowy buildings, containing in -their delightful interiors the artistic, mechanical and scientific -achievements of the world. Greece, Italy, India, Egypt, Japan, Germany, -South America, the West and East Indies, the Arctics—all represented! I -have often thought since how those pessimists who up to that time had -imagined that nothing of any artistic or scientific import could -possibly be brought to fruition in America, especially in the middle -West, must have opened their eyes as I did mine at the sight of this -realized dream of beauty, this splendid picture of the world’s own hope -for itself. I have long marveled at it and do now as I recall it, its -splendid Court of Honor, with its monumental stateliness and simple -grandeur; the peristyle with its amazing grace of columns and sculptured -figures; the great central arch with its triumphal quadriga; the dome of -the Administration Building with its daring nudes; the splendid -groupings on the Agricultural Building, as well as those on the -Manufacturers’ and Women’s buildings. It was not as if many minds had -labored toward this great end, or as if the great raw city which did not -quite understand itself as yet had endeavored to make a great show, but -rather as though some brooding spirit of beauty, inherent possibly in -some directing over-soul, had waved a magic wand quite as might have -Prospero in _The Tempest_ or Queen Mab in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_, -and lo, this fairyland. - -In the morning when I came down from my room I fell in with Miss W—— in -the diningroom and was thrilled by the contact. She was so gay, -good-natured, smiling, unaffected. And with her now was a younger sister -of whom I had not heard and who had come to Chicago by a different route -to join her. I was promptly introduced, and we sat down at the same -table. It was not long before we were joined by the others, and then I -could see by the exchange of glances that it was presumed that I had -fallen a victim to this charmer of the night before. But already the -personality of the younger sister was appealing to me quite as much as -the elder. She was so radiant of humor, freckled, plump, laughing and -with such an easy and natural mode of address. Somehow she struck me as -knowing more of life than her sister, being more sophisticated and yet -quite as innocent. - -After breakfast the company broke up into groups of two and three. Each -had plans for the day and began talking them over. - -We started off finally for the Fair gate and on the way I had an -opportunity to study some of the other members of the party and make up -my mind as to whether I really preferred her above all. Despite my -leaning toward Miss W—— I now discovered that there was a number whose -charms, if not superior to those of Miss W——, were greater than I had -imagined, while some of those who had attracted me the night before were -being modified by little traits of character or mannerism which I did -not like. Among them was one rosy black-haired Irish girl whose solid -beauty attracted me very much. She was young and dark and robust, with -the air of a hoyden. I looked at her, quite taken by her snapping black -eyes, but nothing came of it for the moment: we were all becoming -interested in the Fair. - -Together, then, we drifted for an hour or more in this world of glorious -sights, an hour or more of dreaming over the arches, the reflections in -the water, the statues, the shadowy throngs by the steps of the lagoons -moving like figures in a dream. Was it real? I sometimes wonder, for it -is all gone. Gone the summer days and nights, the air, the color, the -form, the mood. In its place is a green park by a lake, still beautiful -but bereft, a city that grows and grows, ever larger, but harder, -colder, grayer. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIX - - -POSSIBLY it was the brightness and freshness of this first day, the -romance of an international fair in America, the snowy whiteness of the -buildings against the morning sun, a blue sky and a bluer lake, the -lagoons weaving in and out, achieving a lightness and an airiness wholly -at war with anything that this Western world had as yet presented, which -caused me to be swept into a dream from which I did not recover for -months. I walked away a little space with my friend of the night before, -learning more of her home and environment. As I saw her now, she seemed -more and more natural, winsome, inviting. Humor seemed a part of her, -and romance, as well as understanding and patience, a quiet and restful -and undisturbed patience. I liked her immensely. She seemed from the -first to offer me an understanding and a sympathy which I had never yet -realized in any one. She smiled at my humor, appreciated my moods. -Returning to my room late in the afternoon I was conscious of a -difficult task, what to write that was worth while, and yet so deeply -moved by it all that I could have clapped my hands for joy. I wanted to -versify or describe it—a mood which youth will understand and maturity -smile at, which causes the mind to sing, to set forth on fantastic -pilgrimages. - -But if I wrote anything worth while I cannot now recall it. I was too -eager to loaf and dream and do nothing at all, almost too idle to -concentrate on what I had been called upon to do. I sent off something, -a thousand or so words of drivel or rapture, and then settled to my real -task of seeing the Fair by night and by day. Now that I was here I was -cheered by the thought that very soon, within a day or two at most, I -should be able to seek out and crow over all my old familiars, Maxwell, -Dunlap, Brady, Hutchinson, a considerable group of newspaper men, as -well as my brothers A—— and E——, who were here employed somewhere, and -my father and several sisters. - -For my father, who was now seventy-two years of age, I had, all of a -sudden, as I have indicated above, the greatest sympathy. At home, up to -my seventeenth or eighteenth birthday, before I got out in the world and -began to make my own way, I had found him fussy, cranky, dosed with too -much religion; but in spite of all this and the quarrels and bickerings -which arose because of it there had always been something tender in his -views, charming, poetic and appreciative. Now I felt sorry for him. A -little while before and after my mother’s death it had seemed to me that -he had become unduly wild on the subject of the church and the -hereafter, was annoying us all with his persistent preachments -concerning duty, economy and the like, the need of living a clean, -saving, religious life. Now, after a year out in the world, with a -broadening knowledge of very different things, I saw him in an entirely -different light. While realizing that he was irritable, crotchety, -domineering, I suddenly saw him as just a broken old man whose hopes and -ambitions had come to nothing, whose religion, impossible as it was to -me, was still a comfort and a blessing to him. Here he was, alone, his -wife dead, his children scattered and not very much interested in him -any more. - -Now that I was here in the city again, I decided that as soon as I could -arrange my other affairs I would go over on the west side and look him -up and bring him to see the Fair, which of course he had not seen. For I -knew that with his saving, worrying, almost penurious disposition he -would not be able to bring himself to endure the expense, even though -tickets were provided him, of visiting the Fair alone. He had had too -much trouble getting enough to live on in these latter years to permit -him to enjoy anything which cost money. I could hear him saying: “No, -no. I cannot afford it. We have too many debts.” He had not always been -so but time and many troubles had made the saving of money almost a -mania with him. - -The next morning, therefore, I journeyed to the west side and finally -found him quite alone, as it chanced, the other members of the family -then living with him having gone out. I shall never forget how old he -looked after my year’s absence, how his eyelids twitched. After a -slightly quizzical and attempted hard examining glance at me his lips -twitched and tears welled to his eyes. He was so utterly done for, as he -knew, and dependent on the courtesy of his children and life. I cried -myself and rubbed his hands and his hair, then told him that I was doing -well and had come to take him to see the Fair, that I had tickets—a -passbook, no less—and that it shouldn’t cost him a penny. Naturally he -was surprised and glad to see me, so anxious to know if I still adhered -to the Catholic faith and went to confession and communion regularly. In -the old days this had been the main bone of contention between us. - -“Tell me, Dorsch,” he said not two minutes after I arrived, “do you -still keep up your church duties?” - -When I hesitated for a moment, uncertain what to say, he went on: “You -ought to do that, you know. If you should die in a state of mortal -sin——” - -“Yes, yes,” I interrupted, making up my mind to give him peace on this -score if I never did another thing in this world, “I always go right -along, once every month or six weeks.” - -“You really do that, do you?” he asked, eyeing me more in appeal than -doubt, though judging by my obstinate past he must have doubted. - -“Yes,” I insisted, “sure. I always go regularly.” - -“I’m glad of that,” he went on hopefully. “I worry so. I think of you -and the rest of the children so much. You’re a young man now and out in -the world, and if you neglect your religious duties——” and he paused as -if in a grave quandary. “When you’re out like that I know it’s hard to -think of the church and your duties, but you shouldn’t neglect them——” - -“Oh, Lord!” I thought. “Now he’s off again! This is the same old -story—religion, religion, religion!” - -“But I do go,” I insisted. “You mustn’t worry about me.” - -“I know,” he said, with a sudden catch in his voice, “but I can’t help -it. You know how it is with the other children: they don’t always do -right in that respect. Paul is away on the stage; I don’t know whether -he goes to church any more. A—— and E—— are here, but they don’t come -here much—I haven’t seen them in I don’t know how long—months——” - -I resolved to plead with E—— and A—— when I saw them. - -He was sitting in a big armchair facing a rear window, and now he took -my hand again and held it. Soon I felt hot tears on it. - -“Pop,” I said, pulling his head against me and smoothing it, “you -mustn’t cry. Things aren’t so bad as all that. The children are all -right. We’ll probably be able to do better and more for you than we’ve -ever done.” - -“I know, I know,” he said after a little while, overcoming his emotion, -“but I’m getting so old, and I don’t sleep much any more—just an hour or -two. I lie there and think. In the morning I get up at four sometimes -and make my coffee. Then the days are so long.” - -I cried too. The long days ... the fading interests ... Mother gone and -the family broken up.... - -“I know,” I said. “I haven’t acted just right—none of us have. I’ll -write you from now on when I’m away, and send you some money once in a -while. I’m going to get you a big overcoat for next winter. And now I -want you to come over with me to the Fair. I’ve tickets, and you’ll -enjoy it. I’m a press representative now, a traveling correspondent. -I’ll show you everything.” - -After due persuasion he got his hat and stick and came with me. We took -a car and an elevated road, which finally landed us at the gate, and -then, for as long as his strength would endure, we wandered about -looking at the enormous buildings, the great Ferris Wheel, the caravels -_Nina_, _Pinta_ and _Santa Maria_ in which Columbus sailed to America, -the convent of La Rabida (which, because it related to the Trappists, -fascinated him), and finally the German Village on the Midway, as German -and _ordentlich_ as ever a German would wish, where we had coffee and -little German cakes with caraway seeds on them and some pot cheese with -red pepper and onions. He was so interested and amused by the vast -spectacle that he could do little save exclaim: “By crackie!” “This is -now beautiful!” or “That is now wonderful!” In the German village he -fell into a conversation with a buxom German _frau_ who had a stand -there and who hailed from some part of Germany about which he seemed to -know, and then all was well indeed. It was long before I could get him -away. These delightful visits were repeated only about four times during -my stay of two weeks, when he admitted that it was tiring and he had -seen enough. - -Another morning when I had not too much to do I looked up my brother -E——, who was driving a laundry wagon somewhere on the south side, and -got him to come out evenings and Sundays, as well as A——, who was -connected with an electric plant as assistant of some kind. I recall -now, with an odd feeling as to the significance of relationship and -family ties generally, how keenly important his and E——’s interests were -to me then and how I suffered because I thought they were not getting -along as well as they should. Looking in a shoe window in Pittsburgh a -year or two later, I actually choked with emotion because I thought that -maybe E—— did not earn enough to keep himself looking well. A—— always -seemed more or less thwarted in his ambitions, and whenever I saw him I -felt sad because, like so many millions of others in this grinding -world, he had never had a real chance. Life is so casual, and luck comes -to many who sleep and flies from those who try. I always felt that under -more advantageous circumstances A—— would have done well. He was so -wise, if slightly cynical, full of a laughing humor. His taste for -literature and artistic things in general was high, although entirely -untrained. Like myself he had a turn for the problems of nature, -constantly wondering as to the why of this or that and seeking the -answer in a broader knowledge. But long hours of work and poor pay -seemed to handicap him in his search. I was sad beyond words about his -condition, and urged him to come to St. Louis and try his luck there, -which he subsequently did. - -Another thing I did was to visit the old _Globe_ office in Fifth Avenue -downtown, only to find things in a bad way there. Although Brady, -Hutchinson and Dunlap were still there the paper was not paying, was, in -fact, in danger of immediate collapse. John B. MacDonald, its financial -backer or angel, having lost a fortune in trying to make it pay and win -an election with it, was about ready to quit and the paper was on its -last legs. Could I get them jobs in St. Louis? Maxwell had gone to the -_Tribune_ and was now a successful copy-reader there.... In my new -summer suit and straw hat and with my various credentials, I felt myself -to be quite a personage. How much better I had done than these men who -had been in the business longer than I had! Certainly I would see what I -could do. They must write me. They could find me now at such-and-such a -hotel. - -The sweets of success! - -In the Newspaper Press Association offices in the great Administration -Building several of my friends from the press showed up and here we -foregathered to talk. Daily in this building at eight or nine or ten at -night I filed a report or message about one thousand words long and was -pleased to see by the papers that arrived that my text was used about as -I wrote it. Loving the grounds of the Fair so much, I browsed there -nearly all day long and all evening, escorting now one girl and now -another, but principally Miss W—— and her sister. Almost unconsciously I -was being fascinated by these two, with my Miss W—— the more; and yet I -was not content to confine myself to her but was constantly looking here -and there, being lured by a number of the others. - -Thus one afternoon, after I had visited the Administration Building and -filed my dispatch rather early, Miss W—— having been unable to be with -me at the Fair, I returned to the hotel, a little weary of sightseeing, -and finding an upper balcony which faced the Fair sat there in a rocker -awaiting the return of some of the party. Presently, as I was resting -and humming to myself, there came down to the parlor, which adjoined -this balcony, that rosy Irish girl, Miss Ginity, who had attracted me -the very first morning. She seemed to be seeking that room in order to -sing and play, there being a piano here. She was dressed in a -close-fitting suit of white linen, which set off her robust little -figure to perfection. Her heavy, oily black hair was parted severely in -the middle and hung heavily over her white temples. She had a -rich-blooded, healthy, aggressive look, not unmarked by desire. - -I was looking through the window when she came in and was wondering if -she would discover me, when she did. She smiled, and I waved to her to -come out. We talked about the Fair and my duties in connection with it. -When I explained the nature of my dispatches she wanted to know if I had -mentioned her name yet. I assured her that I had, and this pleased her. -I had the feeling that she liked me and that I could influence her if I -chose. - -“What has become of your friend Miss W——?” she finally asked with a -touch of malice when I looked at her too kindly. - -“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since yesterday or the day before,” -which was not true. “What makes you ask that?” - -“Oh, I thought you rather liked her,” she said boldly, throwing up her -chin and smiling. - -“And what made you think it?” I asked calmly. It was in my mind that I -could master and deceive her as to this, and I proposed to try. - -“Oh, I just thought so. You seemed to like her company.” - -“Not any more than I do that of others,” I insisted with great -assurance. “She’s interesting, that’s all. I didn’t think I was showing -any preference.” - -“Oh, I’m just joking,” she laughed. “I really don’t think anything about -it. One of the other girls made the remark.” - -“Well, she’s wrong,” I said indifferently. - -But I could see that she wasn’t joking. I could also see that I had -relieved her mind. My pose of indifference had quelled her feeling that -I was not wholly free. We sat and talked until dinner, and then I asked -her if she would like to go for a stroll in the park, to which she -agreed. By now we were obviously drifting toward each other emotionally, -and I thought how fine it would be to idle and dream with this girl in -the moonlight. - -After dinner, when we started out, the air was soft and balmy and the -moon was just rising over the treetops in the East. A faint odor of -fresh flowers and fresh leaves was abroad and the night seemed to rest -in a soothing stillness. From the Midway came the sounds of muffled -drums and flutes, vibrant with the passion of the East. Before us were -the wide stretches of the park, dark and suggestive of intrigue where -groups of trees were gathered in silent, motionless array, in others -silvered by a fairy brightness which suggested a world of romance and -feeling. - -I walked silently on with her, flooded with a voiceless feeling of -ecstasy. Now I was surely proving to myself that I was not entirely -helpless in the presence of girls. This time of idleness and moonlight -was in such smooth consonance with my most romantic wishes. She was not -so romantic, but the ardent luxury of her nature appeared to answer to -the romantic call of mine. - -“Isn’t this wonderful?” I said at last, seeking to interest her. - -“Yes,” she replied, almost practically. “I’ve been wondering why some of -the girls don’t come over here at night. It’s so wonderful. But I -suppose they’re tired.” - -“They’re not as strong as you, that’s it. You’re so vigorous. I was -thinking today how healthy you look.” - -“Were you? And I was just thinking what my mother would say if she knew -I was out here with a total stranger.” - -“You told me you lived in St. Louis, I think?” I said. - -“Yes, out in the north end. Near O’Fallon Park.” - -“Well, then, I’ll get to see you when you go back,” I laughed. - -“Oh, will you?” she returned coquettishly. “How do you know?” - -“Well, won’t I?” - -The thought flashed across my mind that once I had been in this selfsame -park with Alice several years before; we had sat under a tree not so -very far from here, near a pagoda silvered by the moon, and had listened -to music played in the distance. I remembered how I had whispered sweet -nothings and kissed her to my heart’s content. - -“Well, you may if you’re good,” she replied. - -I began jesting with her now. I deliberately descended from the ordinary -reaches of my intelligence, anxious to match her own interests with some -which would seem allied. I wanted her to like me, although I felt all -the while that we were by no means suited temperamentally. She was too -commonplace and unimaginative, although so attractive physically. - -We sat in silence for a time, and I slipped my hand down and laid hold -of her fingers. She did not stir, pretending not to notice, but I felt -that she was thrilling also. - -“You asked about Miss W——,” I said. “What made you do that?” - -“Oh, I thought you liked her. Why shouldn’t I?” - -“It never occurred to you that I might like some one else?” - -“Certainly not. Why should I?” - -I pressed her fingers softly. She turned on me all at once a face so -white and tense that it showed fully the feeling that now gripped her. -It was almost as if she were breaking under an intense nervous strain -which she was attempting to conceal. - -“I thought you might,” I replied daringly. “There is some one, you -know.” I was surprising myself. - -“Is there?” Her voice sounded weak. She did not attempt to look at me -now, and I was wondering how far I would go. - -“You couldn’t guess, of course?” - -“No. Why should I?” - -“Look at me,” I said quietly. - -“All right,” she said with a little indifferent shrug. “I’ll look at -you. There now; what of it?” - -Again that intense, nervous, strained look. Her lips were parted in a -shy frightened smile, showing her pretty teeth. Her eyes were touched -with points of light where the moonlight, falling over my shoulder, -shone upon them. It gave her whole face an eerie, almost spectral -paleness, something mystical and insubstantial, which spoke of the -brevity and non-endurance of all these things. She was far more -wonderful here than ever she could have been in clear daylight. - -“You have beautiful eyes,” I remarked. - -“Oh,” she shrugged disdainfully, “is that all?” - -“No. You have beautiful teeth and hair—such hair!” - -“You mustn’t grow sentimental,” she commented, not removing her hand. - -I slipped my arm about her waist and she moved nervously. - -“And you still can’t guess who?” I said finally. - -“No,” she replied, keeping her face from me. - -“Then I’ll tell you,” and putting my free hand to her cheek I turned her -face to me. - -I studied her closely, and then in a moment the last shred of reluctance -and coquetry in her seemed to evaporate. At the touch of my hand on her -cheek she seemed to change: the whole power of her ardent nature was -rising. At last she seemed to be yielding completely, and I put my lips -to hers and kissed her warmly, then pressed her close and held her. - -“Now do you know?” I asked after a time. - -“Yes,” she nodded, and for a proffered kiss returned an ardent one of -her own. - -I was beside myself with astonishment and delight. For the life of me I -could not explain to myself how it was that I had achieved this result -so swiftly. Something in the idyllic atmosphere, something in our -temperaments, I fancied, made this quick spiritual and material -understanding possible, but I wanted to know how. For a time we sat thus -in the moonlight, I holding her hand and pressing her waist. Yet I could -not feel that I liked her beyond the charm of her physical appearance, -but that was enough at present. Physical beauty, with not too much -grossness, was all I asked then—youth, a measure of innocence, and -beauty. I pretended to have a real feeling for her and to be struck by -her beauty, which was not wholly untrue. My feelings, however, as I well -knew, were of so light and variable a character that it seemed almost a -shame to lure her in this fashion. Why had I done it? It was decidedly -unfortunate for her, I now thought, that we two should now meet under -the same roof, with Miss W—— and others, perhaps making a third, fourth, -or fifth possibly, but I anticipated no troublesome results. I might -keep them apart. Anyhow, if I could not, my relationship in either case -had not become earnest enough to cause me to worry. I hoped, however, to -make it so in the case of Miss W——; Miss Ginity I knew from the first to -be only a momentary flame. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XL - - -AS I hoped, there were no ill effects from this little diversion, but by -now I was so interested in Miss W—— that I felt a little unfair to her. -As I look back on it I can imagine no greater error of mind or -temperament than that which drew me to her, considering my own variable -tendencies and my naturally freedom-loving point of view. But since we -are all blind victims of chance and given to far better hind-sight than -fore-sight I have no complaint to make. It is quite possible that this -was all a part of my essential destiny or development, one of those -storm-breeding mistakes by which one grows. Life seems thus often -casually to thrust upon one an experience which is to prove illuminating -or disastrous. - -To pick up the thread of my narrative, I saw Miss Ginity at breakfast, -but she showed no sign that we had been out together the previous -evening. Instead, she went on her way briskly as though nothing had -happened, and this made her rather alluring again in my eyes. When Miss -W—— came down I suffered a slight revulsion of feeling: she was so fresh -and innocent, so spiritually and mentally above any such quick and -compromising relationship as that which I and my new acquaintance had -established the night before. I planned to be more circumspect in my -relations with Miss Ginity and to pay more attention to Miss W——. - -This plan was facilitated by the way in which the various members of the -party now grouped and adjusted themselves. Miss W—— and her sister -seemed to prefer to go about together, with me as an occasional third, -and Miss Ginity and several of her new acquaintances made a second -company, with whom I occasionally walked. Thus the distribution of my -attentions was in no danger of immediate detection and I went gayly on. - -A peculiar characteristic at this time and later was that I never really -expected any of these relationships to endure. Marriage might be well -enough for the average man but it never seemed to me that I should -endure in it, that it would permanently affect my present free -relationship with the world. I might be greatly grieved at times in a -high emotional way because they could not last, but that was rising to -heights of sentiment which puzzled even myself. One of the things which -troubled and astonished me was that I could like two, three, and even -more women at the same time, like them very much indeed. It seemed -strange that I could yearn over them, now one and now another. A good -man, I told myself, would not do this. The thought would never occur to -him, or if it did he would repress it sternly. Obviously, if not -profoundly evil I was a freak and had best keep my peculiar thoughts and -desires to myself if I wanted to have anything to do with good people. I -should be entirely alone, perhaps even seized upon by the law. - -During the next two weeks I saw much of both Miss W—— and Miss Ginity. -By day I usually accompanied Miss W—— and her sister from place to place -about the grounds and of an evening strolled with Miss Ginity, all the -while wondering if Miss W—— really liked me, whether her present feeling -was likely to turn to something deeper. I felt a very definite point of -view in her, very different from mine. In her was none of the -variability that troubled me: if ever a person was fixed in conventional -views it was she. One life, one love would have answered for her -exactly. She could have accepted any condition, however painful or even -degrading, providing she was bolstered up by what she considered the -moral law. “To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in poverty -and in riches, until death do us part.” I think the full force of these -laws must have been imbibed with her mother’s milk. - -As for Miss Ginity, although she was conventional enough, I did feel -that she might be persuaded to relax the moral rule in favor of one at -least, and so was congratulating myself upon having achieved an -affectional triumph. She may not have been deeply impressed by my -physical attraction but there was something about me nevertheless which -seemed to hold her. After a few days she left the hotel to visit some -friends or relatives, to whom she had to pay considerable attention, but -in my box nights or mornings, if by any chance I had not seen her, I -would find notes explaining where she could be found in the evening, -usually at a drugstore near the park or her new apartment, and we would -take a few minutes’ stroll in the park. Such a fever of emotion as she -displayed at times! “Oh dear!” she would exclaim in an intense hungry -way upon seeing me. “Oh, I could hardly wait!” And once in the park she -would throw her strong young arms about me and kiss me in a fiery, -hungry way. There was one last transport the night before she left for -Michigan for a visit, when if I had been half the Don Juan I longed to -be we might have passed the boundary line; but lack of courage on my -part and inexperience on hers kept us apart. - -When I saw her again in St. Louis—— - -But that is still another story. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XLI - - -THUS these days sped swiftly and ecstatically by. For once in my life I -seemed to be truly and consistently happy, and that in this very city -where but a year or two before I had suffered such keen distress. Toward -the middle of the second week Miss Ginity left for Michigan, and then I -had Miss W—— all to myself. By now I had come to feel an intense -interest in her, an elation over the mere thought of being with her. In -addition to this joy my mind and body seemed to be responding in some -ecstatic fashion to Chicago and the Fair as a whole, the romance and -color of it all, the winelike quality of the air, the raw, fresh, young -force of the city, so vividly manifested in its sounding streets, its -towering new buildings, its far-flung lines of avenues and boulevards, -and, by way of contrast, its vast regions of middle and lower class -poor. When we lived here as a family I had always thought that poverty -was no great hardship. The poor were poor enough, in all conscience, but -oh, the singing hope of the city itself! Up, up, and to work! Here were -tasks for a million hands. In spite of my attachment to the Fair and -Miss Ginity and Miss W—— I was still lured cityward, to visit the -streets in which we had once lived or where I had walked so much in the -old days, mere journeys of remembrance. - -But as I wandered about I realized that the city was not my city any -more, that life was a baseless, shifting thing, its seeming ties -uncertain and unstable and that that which one day we held dear was -tomorrow gone, to come no more. How plain it was, I thought and with -some surprise, so ignorant is youth, that even seemingly brisk -organizations such as the _Globe_ here in Chicago and some others with -which I had been connected could wither or disappear completely, one’s -commercial as well as one’s family life be scattered to the four Winds. -Sensing this, I now felt an intense sense of loneliness and -homesickness, for what I could scarcely say: for each and every one of -past pleasant moments, I presume, our abandoned home in Flournoy Street, -now rented to another; my old desk at the _Globe_, now occupied by -another; Alice’s former home on this south side; N——’s in Indiana -Street. I was gloomy over having no fixed abode, no intimates worthy the -name here who could soothe and comfort me in such an hour as this. -Curiously enough, at such moments I felt an intense leaning toward Miss -W——, who seemed to answer with something stable and abiding. I am at a -loss even now to describe it but so it was, and it was more than -anything else a sense of peace and support which I found in her -presence, a something that suggested durability and warmth—possibly the -Whole closely-knit family atmosphere which was behind her and upon which -she relied. She would listen, apparently with interest, to all my -youthful and no doubt bragging accounts of my former newspaper -experiences here as well as in St. Louis, which I painted in high colors -with myself as a newspaper man deep in the councils of my paper. Walking -about the Fair grounds one night I wished to take her hand but so -overawed was I by her personality that I could scarcely muster up the -courage to do it. When I at last did she shyly withdrew her hand, -pretending not to notice. - -The same thing happened an evening or two later when I persuaded her and -her sister to accompany me and a fellow-reporter whom I met in Chicago, -to Lincoln Park, where was a band concert and the playing of a colored -fountain given by the late C. T. Yerkes, then looked upon as one of the -sights of the city. I recall how warm and clear was the evening, our -trip northward on the newly-built “Alley L,” so-called because no public -thoroughfare could be secured for it, how when we got off at Congress -Street, where the enormous store of Siegel, Cooper & Company had only -recently been opened, we there took a surface cable to Lincoln Park. It -was barely dusk when we reached the park, and the fountain did not play -until nine; but pending its colored wonders, we walked along the shore -of the lake in the darkness, alone, her sister and my friend having been -swallowed up in the great crowd. - -Once near the lake shore we were alone. I found myself desperately -interested without knowing how to proceed. It was a state of hypnosis, I -fancy, in which I felt myself to be rapturously happy because more or -less convinced of her feeling for me, and yet gravely uncertain as to -whether she would ever permit herself to be ensnared in love. She was so -poised and serene, so stable and yet so tender. I felt foolish, -unworthy. Were not the crude brutalities of love too much for her? She -might like me now, but the slightest error on my part in word or deed -would no doubt drive her away and I should never see her again. I wanted -to put my arm about her waist or hold her hand, but it was all beyond me -then. She seemed too remote, a little unreal. - -Finally, moved by the idyllic quality of it all, I left her and strolled -down to the very edge of the lake where the water was lapping the sand. -I had the feeling that if she really cared for me she would follow me, -but she did not. She waited sedately on the rise above, but I felt all -the while that she was drawing toward me intensely and holding me as in -a vise. Half-angry but still fascinated, I returned, anything but the -master of this situation. In truth, she had me as completely in tow as -any woman could wish and was able, consciously or unconsciously, to -regulate the progress of this affair to suit herself. - -But nothing came of this except a deeper feeling of her exceptional -charm. I was more than ever moved by her grace and force. What sobriety! -What delicacy of feature! Her big eyes, soft and appealing, her small -red mouth, her abundance of red hair, a constant enticement. - -Before she left for her home, one of the inland counties about ninety -miles from St. Louis, all that was left of the party, which was not -many, paid a visit to St. Joe on the Michigan shore, opposite Chicago. -It was a deliciously bright and warm Sunday. The steamers were -comfortable and the beach at St. Joe perfect, a long coast of lovely -white sand with the blue waves breaking over it. En route, because of -the size of the party and the accidental arrangement of friends, I was -thrown in with R——, the sister of my adored one, and in spite of myself, -I found myself being swiftly drawn to her, desperately so, and that in -the face of the strong attachment for her sister. There was something so -cheering and whole-souled about her point of view, something so -provoking and elusive, a veritable sprite of gayety and humor. For some -reason, both on the boat and in the water, she devoted herself to me, -until she seemed suddenly to realize what was happening to us both. Then -she desisted and I saw her no more, or very little of her; but the -damage had been done. I was intensely moved by her, even dreaming of -changing my attentions; but she was too fond of her sister to allow -anything like that. From then on she avoided me, with the sole intent, -as I could see, of not injuring her sister. - -We returned at night, I with the most troubled feelings about the whole -affair, and it was only after I had returned to St. Louis that the old -feeling for S—— came back and I began to see and think of her as I had -that night in Lincoln Park. Then her charm seemed to come with full -force and for days I could think of nothing else: the Fair, the hotel, -the evening walks, and what she was doing now; but even this was shot -through with the most jumbled thoughts of her sister and Miss Ginity.... -I leave it to those who can to solve this mystery of the affections. -Miss W——, as I understood it, was not to come back to St. Louis until -the late autumn, when she could be found in an aristocratic suburb about -twenty miles out, teaching of course, whereas Miss Ginity was little -more than a half-hour’s ride from my room. - -But, as I now ruefully thought, I had not troubled to look up Alice, -although once she had meant so much of Chicago and happiness to me. What -kind of man was I to become thus indifferent and then grieve over it? - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XLII - - -TO return and take up the ordinary routine of reporting after these -crystal days of beauty and romance was anything but satisfactory. Gone -was the White City with its towers and pinnacles and the wide blue wash -of lake at its feet. After the Fair and the greater city, St. Louis -seemed prosaic indeed. Still, I argued, I was getting along here better -than I had in Chicago. When I went down to the office I found Wandell -poring as usual over current papers. He was always scribbling and -snipping, like a little old leathery Punch, in his mussy office. The -mere sight of him made me wish that I were through with the newspaper -business forever: it brought back all the regularity of the old days. -When should I get out of it? I now began to ask myself for the first -time. What was my real calling in life? Should I ever again have my -evenings to myself? When should I be able to idle and dawdle as I had -seen other people doing? I did not then realize how few the leisure -class really comprises; I was always taking the evidence of one or two -passing before my gaze as indicating a vast company. _I_ was one of the -unfortunates who were shut out; _I_ was one whose life was to be a -wretched tragedy for want of means to enjoy it now when I had youth and -health! - -“Well, did you have a good time?” asked Wandell. - -“Yes,” I replied dolefully. “That’s a great show up there. It’s -beautiful.” - -“Any of the girls fall in love with you?” he croaked good-humoredly. - -“Oh, it wasn’t as bad as that.” - -“Well, I suppose you’re ready to settle down now to hard work. I’ve got -a lot of things here for you to do.” - -I cannot say that I was cheered by this. It was hard to have to settle -down to ordinary reporting after all these recent glories. It seemed to -me as though an idyllic chapter of my life had been closed forever. -Thereafter, I undertook one interesting assignment and another but -without further developing my education as to the workings of life. I -was beginning to tire of reporting, and one more murder or political or -social mystery aided me in no way. - -I recall, however, taking on a strange murder mystery over in Illinois -which kept me stationed in a small countyseat for days, and all the time -there was nothing save a sense of hard work about it all. Again, there -was a train robbery that took me into the heart of a rural region where -were nothing but farmers and small towns. Again there was a change of -train service which permitted the distribution of St. Louis newspapers -earlier than the Chicago papers in territory which was somehow disputed -between them and because of which I was called upon to make a trip -between midnight and dawn, riding for hours in the mailcar, and then -describing fully this supposedly wonderful special newspaper service -which was to make all the inhabitants of this region wiser, kinder, -richer because they could get the St. Louis papers before they could -those of Chicago! I really did not think much of it, although I was -congratulated upon having penned a fine picture. - -One thing really did interest me: A famous mindreader having come to -town and wishing to advertise his skill, he requested the _Republic_ to -appoint a man or a committee to ride with him in a carriage through the -crowded downtown streets while he, blindfolded but driving, followed the -directing thoughts of the man who should sit on the seat beside him. I -was ordered to get up this committee, which I did—Dick, Peter, -Rodenberger and myself were my final choice, I sitting on the front seat -and doing the thinking while the mindreader raced in and out between -cars and wagons, turning sharp corners, escaping huge trucks by a hair -only, to wind up finally at Dick’s door, dash up the one flight of -stairs and into the room (the door being left open for this), and then -climb up on a chair placed next to a wardrobe and, as per my thought, -all decided on beforehand, take down that peculiar head of Alley Sloper -and hand it to me. - -Now this thing, when actually worked out under my very eyes and with -myself doing the thinking, astounded me and caused me to ponder the -mysteries of life more than ever. How could another man read my mind -like that? What was it that perceived and interpreted my thoughts? It -gave me an immense kick mentally, one that stays by me to this day, and -set me off eventually on the matters of psychology and chemic mysteries -generally. When this was written up as true, as it was, it made a -splendid story and attracted a great deal of attention. Once and for -all, it cleared up my thoughts as to the power of mind over so-called -matter and caused this “committee” to enter upon experiments of its own -with hypnotists, spiritualists and the like, until we were fairly well -satisfied as to the import of these things. I myself stood on the -stomach of a thin hypnotized boy of not more than seventeen years of -age, while his head was placed on one chair, his feet on another and no -brace of any kind was put under his body. Yet his stomach held me up. -But, having established the truth of such things for ourselves, we found -no method of doing anything with our knowledge. It was practically -useless in this region, and decidedly taboo. - -Another individual who interested me quite as might a book or story was -a Spiritualist, a fat, sluglike Irish type, who came to town about this -time and proved to be immensely successful in getting up large meetings, -entrance to which he charged. Soon there were ugly rumors as to the -orgiastic character of his séances, especially at his home where he -advertised to receive interested spiritualists in private. One day my -noble and nosy city editor set me to the task of ferreting out all this, -with the intention of _sicking_ the moralists on the gentleman and so -driving him out of town. Was it because Mr. Wandell, interested in -morals or at least responding to the local sentiment for a moral city, -considered this man a real menace to St. Louis and so wished to be rid -of him? Not at all. Mr. Wandell cared no more for Mr. Mooney or the -public or its subsurface morals than he cared for the politics of -Beluchistan. In the heart of St. Louis at this very time, in Chestnut -Street, was a large district devoted to just such orgies as this -stranger was supposed to be perpetrating; but this area was never in the -public eye, and you could not, for your life, put it there. The public -apparently did not want it attacked, or if it did there were forces -sufficiently powerful to keep it from obtaining its wishes. The police -were supposed to extract regular payments from one and all in this area, -as Rodenberger, in the little paper he ran, frequently charged, but this -paper had no weight. The most amazing social complications occasionally -led directly to one or another of these houses, as I myself had seen, -but no comment was ever made on the peculiarity of the area as a whole -or its persistence in the face of so much moral sentiment. The vice -crusaders never troubled it, neither did the papers or the churches or -anybody else. But when it came to Mr. Mooney—well, here was an -individual who could be easily and safely attacked, and so— - -Mr. Mooney had a large following and many defenders whose animosity or -gullibility led them to look upon him as a personage of great import. He -was unquestionably a shrewd and able manipulator, one of the finest -quacks I ever saw. He would race up and down among the members of his -large audience in his spiritualistic “church meetings,” his fat waxy -eyelids closed, his immense white shirt-front shining, his dress -coattails flying like those of a bustling butler or head-waiter, the -while he exclaimed: “Is there any one here by the name of Peter? Is -there any one here by the name of Augusta? There is an old white-bearded -man here who says he has something to say to Augusta. And Peter—Peter, -your sister says not to marry, that everything now troubling you will -soon come out all right.” - -He would open these meetings with spiritual invocations of one kind and -another and pretend the profoundest religiosity and spirituality when as -a matter of fact he was a faker of the most brazen stamp. As Wandell -afterward showed me by clippings and police reports from other cities, -he had been driven from one city to another, cities usually very far -apart so that the news of his troubles might not spread too quickly. His -last resting-place had been Norfolk, Virginia, and before that he had -been in such widely scattered spots as Liverpool, San Francisco, Sydney, -New South Wales. Always he had been immensely successful, drawing large -crowds, taking up collections and doing a private séance business which -must have netted him a tidy sum. Indeed in private life, as I soon -found, he was a gourmet, a sybarite and a riant amorist, laughing in his -sleeve at all his touts and followers. - -For some time I was unable to gather any evidence that would convict him -of anything in a direct way. Once he found the _Republic_ to be -unfavorable, he became pugnacious and threatened to assault me if I ever -came near him or his place or attempted to write up anything about him -which was not true! On the other hand, Wandell, being equally determined -to catch him, insisted upon my following him up and exposing him. My -task was not easy. I was compelled to hang about his meetings, trying to -find some one who would tell me something definite against him. - -Going to his rooms one day when he was absent, I managed to meet his -landlady who, when I told her that I was from the _Republic_ and wanted -to know something about Mr. Mooney’s visitors, his private conduct and -so forth, asked me to come in. At once I sensed something definite and -important, for I had been there before and had been turned away by this -same woman. But today, for some reason she escorted me very secretly to -a room on the second floor where she closed and locked the door and then -began a long story concerning the peculiar relations which existed -between Mr. Mooney and some of his male and female disciples, especially -the female ones. She finally admitted that she had been watching Mr. -Mooney’s rooms through a keyhole. For weeks past there had been various -visitors whose comings and goings had meant little to her until they -became “so regular,” as she said, and Mr. Mooney so particularly engaged -with them. Then, since Mr. Mooney’s fame had been spreading and the -_Republic_ had begun to attack him, she had become most watchful and -now, as she told me, he was “carrying on” most shamefully with one and -another of his visitors, male and female. Just what these relations were -she at first refused to state, but when I pointed out to her that unless -she could furnish me with other and more convincing proof than her mere -word or charge it would all be of small value, she unbent sufficiently -to fix on one particular woman, whose card and a note addressed to Mr. -Mooney she had evidently purloined from his room. These she produced and -turned over to me with a rousing description of the nature of the -visits. - -Armed with the card and note, I immediately proceeded to the west end -where I soon found the house of the lady, determined to see whether she -would admit this soft impeachment, whether I could make her admit it. I -was a little uncertain then as to how I was to go about it. Suppose I -should run into the lady’s husband, I thought, or suppose they should -come down together when I sent in my card? Or suppose that I charged her -with what I knew and she called some one to her aid and had me thrown -out or beaten up? Nevertheless I went nervously up the steps and rang -the bell, whereupon a footman opened the door. - -“Who is it you wish to see?” - -I told him. - -“Have you an appointment with her?” - -“No, but I’m from the _Republic_, and you tell her that it is very -important for her to see me. We have an article about her and a certain -Mr. Mooney which we propose to print in the morning, and I think she -will want to see me about it.” I stared at him with a great deal of -effrontery. He finally closed the door, leaving me outside, but soon -returned and said: “You may come in.” - -I walked into a large, heavily furnished reception-room, representing -the best Western taste of the time, in which I nosed about thinking how -fine it all was and wondering how I was to proceed about all this once -she appeared. Suppose she proved to be a fierce and contentious soul -well able to hold her own, or suppose there was some mistake about this -letter or the statement of the landlady! As I was walking up and down, -quite troubled as to just what I should say, I heard the rustle of silk -skirts. I turned just as a vigorous and well-dressed woman of thirty-odd -swept into the room. She was rather smart, bronze-haired, pink-fleshed, -not in the least nervous or disturbed. - -“You wish to see me?” - -“Yes, ma’am.” - -“About what, please?” - -“I am from the _Republic_,” I began. “We have a rather startling story -about you and Mr. Mooney. It appears that his place has been watched and -that you——” - -“A story about me?” she interrupted with an air of hauteur, seeming to -have no idea of what I was driving at. “And about a Mr. Who? Mooney, you -say? What kind of a story is it? Why do you come to me about it? Why, I -don’t even know the man!” - -“Oh, but I think you do,” I replied, thinking of the letter and card in -my pocket. “As a matter of fact, I know that you do. At the office right -now we have a card and a letter of yours to Mr. Mooney, which the -_Republic_ proposes to publish along with some other matter unless some -satisfactory explanation as to why it should not be printed can be made. -We are conducting a campaign against Mr. Mooney, as you probably know.” - -I have often thought of this scene as a fine illustration of the crass, -rough force of life, its queer non-moral tangles, bluster, bluff, lies, -make-believe. Beginning by accusing me of attempted blackmail, and -adding that she would inform her husband and that I must leave the house -at once or be thrown out, she glared until I replied that I would leave -but that I had her letter to Mr. Mooney, that there were witnesses who -would testify as to what had happened between her and Mr. Mooney and -that unless she proceeded to see my city editor at once the whole thing -would be written up for the next day’s paper. Then of a sudden she -collapsed. Her face blanched, her body trembled, and she, a healthy, -vigorous woman, dropped to her knees before me, seized my hands and coat -and began pleading with me in an agonized voice. - -“But you wouldn’t do that! My husband! My home! My social position! My -children! My God, you wouldn’t have me driven out of my own home! If he -came here now! Oh, my God, tell me what I am to do! Tell me that you -won’t do anything—that the _Republic_ won’t! I’ll give you anything you -want. Oh, you couldn’t be so heartless! Maybe I have done wrong—but -think of what will happen to me if you do this!” - -I stared at her in amazement. Never had I been the center of such an -astonishing scene. On the instant I felt a mingled sense of triumph and -extreme pity. Thoughts as to whether I should tell the _Republic_ what I -knew, whether if I did it would have the cruelty to expose this woman, -whether she would or could be made to pay blackmail by any one raced -through my mind. I was sorry and yet amused. Always this thought of -blackmail, of which I heard considerable in newspaper work but of which -I never had any proof, troubled me. If I exposed her, what then? Would -Wandell hound her? If I did not would he discover that I was suppressing -the news and so discharge me? Pity for her was plainly mingled with a -sense of having achieved another newspaper beat. Now, assuredly, the -_Republic_ could make this erratic individual move on. To her I -proceeded to make plain that I personally was helpless, a mere reporter -who of himself could do nothing. If she wished she could see Mr. -Wandell, who could help her if he chose, and I gave her his home -address, knowing that he would not be at his office at this time of day, -but hoping to see him myself before she did. Weeping and moaning, she -raced upstairs, leaving me to make my way out as best I might. Once out -I meditated on this effrontery and the hard, cold work I was capable of -doing. Surely this was a dreadful thing to have done. Had I the right? -Was it fair? Suppose I had been the victim? Still I congratulated myself -upon having done a very clever piece of work for which I should be -highly complimented. - -The lady must have proceeded at once to my city editor for when I -returned to the office he was there; he called me to him at once. - -“Great God! What have you been doing now? Of all men I have ever known, -you can get me into more trouble in a half-hour than any other man could -in a year! Here I was, sitting peacefully at home, and up comes my wife -telling me there’s a weeping woman in the parlor who had just driven up -to see me. Down I go and she grabs my hands, falls on her knees and -begins telling me about some letters we have, that her life will be -ruined if we publish them. Do you want to get me sued for divorce?” he -went on, cackling and chortling in his impish way. “What the hell are -those letters, anyhow? Where are they? What’s this story you’ve dug up -now? Who is this woman? You’re the damnedest man I ever saw!” and he -cackled some more. I handed over the letter and he proceeded to look it -over with considerable gusto. As I could see, he was pleased beyond -measure. - -I told my story, and he was intensely interested but seemed to meditate -on its character for some time. What happened after that between him and -the woman I was never able to make out. But one thing is sure: the story -was never published, not this incident. An hour or two later, seeing me -enter the office after my dinner, he called me in and began: - -“You leave this with me now and drop the story for the present. There -are other ways to get Mooney,” and sure enough, in a few days Mr. Mooney -suddenly left town. It was a curious procedure to me, but at least Mr. -Mooney was soon gone—and—— - -But figure it out for yourself. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XLIII - - -TWO other incidents in connection with my newspaper work at this time -threw a clear light on social crimes and conditions which cannot always -be discussed or explained. One of these related to an old man of about -sixty-five years of age who was in the coffee and spice business in one -of those old streets which bordered on the waterfront. One afternoon in -mid-August, when there was little to do in the way of reporting and I -was hanging about the office waiting for something to turn up, Wandell -received a telephone message and handed me a slip of paper. “You go down -to this address and see what you can find out. There’s been a fight or -something. A crowd has been beating up an old man and the police have -arrested him—to save him, I suppose.” - -I took a car and soon reached the scene, a decayed and tumbledown region -of small family dwellings now turned into tenements of even a poorer -character. St. Louis had what so large a center as New York has not: -alleys or rear passage-ways to all houses by which trade parcels, waste -and the like are delivered or removed. And facing these were old barns, -sheds, and tumbledown warrens of houses and flats occupied by poor -whites or blacks, or both. In an old decayed and vacant brick barn in -one of these alleys there had been only a few hours before a furious -scene, although when I arrived it was all over, everything was still and -peaceful. All that I could learn was that several hours before an old -man had been found in this barn with a little girl of eight or nine -years. The child’s parents or friends were informed and a chase ensued. -The criminal had been surrounded by a group of irate citizens who -threatened to kill him. Then the police arrived and escorted him to the -station at North Seventh, where supposedly he was locked up. - -On my arrival at the station, however, nothing was known of this case. -My noble King knew nothing and when I looked on the “blotter,” which -supposedly contained a public record of all arrests and charges made, -and which it was my privilege as well as that of every other newspaper -man to look over, there was no evidence of any such offense having been -committed or of any such prisoner having been brought here. - -“What became of that attempted assault in K Street?” I inquired of King, -who was drowsily reading a newspaper. “I was just over there and they -told me the man had been brought here.” - -He looked up at me wearily, seemingly not interested. “What case? It -must be down if it came in here. What case are ye taalkin’ about? Maybe -it didn’t come here.” - -I looked at him curiously, struck all at once by an air of concealment. -He was not as friendly as usual. - -“That’s funny,” I said. “I’ve just come from there and they told me he -was here. It would be on the blotter, wouldn’t it? Were you here an hour -or two ago?” - -For the first time since I had been coming here he grew a bit truculent. -“Sure. If it’s not on there it’s not on there, and that’s all I know. If -you want to know more than that you’ll have to see the captain.” - -At thought of the police attempting to conceal a thing like this in the -face of my direct knowledge I grew irritable and bold myself. - -“Where’s the captain?” I asked. - -“He’s out now. He’ll be back at four, I think.” - -I sat down and waited, then decided to call up the office for further -instructions. Wandell was in. He advised me to call up Edmonstone at the -Four Courts and see if it was recorded, which I did, but nothing was -known. When I returned I found the captain in. He was a taciturn man and -had small use for reporters at any time. - -“Yes, yes, yes,” he kept reiterating as I asked him about the case. -“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said after a long pause, seeing that I was -determined to know, “he’s not here now. I let him go. No one saw him -commit the crime. He’s an old man with a big wholesale business in -Second Street, never arrested before, and he has a wife and grown sons -and daughters. Of course he oughtn’t to be doin’ anything of that -kind—still, he claims that he wasn’t. Anyhow, no good can come of -writin’ it up in the papers now. Here’s his name and address,” and he -opened a small book which he drew out of his pocket and showed me that -and no more. “Now you can go and talk to him yourself if you want to, -but if you take my advice you’ll let him alone. I see no good in pullin’ -him down if it’s goin’ to hurt his family. But that’s as you newspaper -men see it.” - -I could have sympathized with this stocky Irishman more if we had not -all been suspicious of the police. I decided to see this old man myself, -curiosity and the desire for a good story controlling me. I hurried to a -car and rode out to the west end, where, in a well-built street and a -house of fair proportions I found my man sitting on his front porch no -doubt awaiting some such disastrous onslaught as this and anxious to -keep it from his family. The moment he saw me he walked to his gate and -stopped me. He was tall and angular, with a grizzled, short, round beard -and a dull, unimportant face, a kind of Smith Brothers-coughdrop type. -Apparently he was well into that period where one is supposed to settle -down into a serene old age and forget all one ever knew of youth. I -inquired whether a Mr. So-and-So lived there, and he replied that he was -Mr. So-and-So. - -“I’m from the _Republic_,” I began, “and we have a story regarding a -charge that has been made against you today in one of the police -stations.” - -He eyed me with a nervous uncertainty that was almost tremulous. He did -not seem to be able to speak at first but chewed on something, a bit of -tobacco possibly. - -“Not so loud,” he said. “Come out here. I’ll give you ten dollars if you -won’t say anything about this,” and he began to fumble in one of his -waistcoat pockets. - -“No, no,” I said, with an air of profound virtue. “I can’t take money -for anything like that. I can’t stop anything the paper may want to say. -You’ll have to see the editor.” - -All the while I was thinking how like an old fox he was and that if one -did have the power to suppress a story of this kind here was a fine -opportunity for blackmail. He might have been made to pay a thousand or -more. At the same time I could not help sympathizing with him a little, -considering his age and his unfortunate predicament. Of late I had been -getting a much clearer light on my own character and idiosyncrasies as -well as on those of many others, and was beginning to see how few there -were who could afford to cast the stone of righteousness or superior -worth. Nearly all were secretly doing one thing and another which they -would publicly denounce and which, if exposed, would cause them to be -shunned or punished. Sex vagaries were not as uncommon as the majority -supposed and perhaps were not to be given too sharp a punishment if -strict justice were to be done to all. Yet here was I at this moment -yelping at the heels of this errant, who had been found out. At the same -time I cannot say that I was very much moved by the personality of the -man: he looked to be narrow and close-fisted. I wondered how a business -man of any acumen could be connected with so shabby an affair, or being -caught could be so dull as to offer any newspaper man so small a sum as -ten dollars to hush it up. And how about the other papers, the other -reporters who might hear of it—did he expect to buy them all off for ten -dollars each? The fact that he had admitted the truth of the charges -left nothing to say. I felt myself grow nervous and incoherent and -finally left rather discomfited and puzzled as to what I should do. When -I returned to the office and told Wandell he seemed to be rather dubious -also and more or less disgusted. - -“You can’t make much out of a case of that kind,” he said. “We couldn’t -print it if you did; the public wouldn’t stand for it. And if you attack -the police for concealing it then they’ll be down on us. He ought to be -exposed, I suppose, but—well——Write it out and I’ll see.” - -I therefore wrote it up in a wary and guarded way, telling what had -happened and how the police had not entered the charge, but the story -never appeared. Somehow, I was rather glad of it, although I thought the -man should be punished. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XLIV - - -WHILE I was on the _Globe-Democrat_ there was a sort of race-track tout, -gambler, amateur detective and political and police hanger-on generally, -who was a purveyor of news not only to our police and political men but -to the sporting and other editors, a sort of Jack-of-all-news or -tipster. To me he was both ridiculous and disgusting, loud, bold, -uncouth, the kind of creature that begins as bootblack or newsboy and -winds up as the president of a racing association or ball team. He -claimed to be Irish, having a freckled face, red hair, gray eyes, and -rather large hands and feet. In reality he was one of those South -Russian Jews who looked so much like the Irish as to be frequently -mistaken for them. He had the wit to see that it would be of more -advantage to him to be thought Irish than Jewish, and so had changed his -name of Shapirowitz to Galvin—“Red” Galvin. One of the most offensive -things about him was that his clothes were loud, just such clothes as -touts and gamblers affect, hard, bright-checked suits, bright yellow -shoes, ties of the most radiant hues, hats of a clashing sonorousness, -and rings and pins and cuff-links glistening with diamonds or rubies—the -kind of man who is convinced that clothes and a little money make the -man, as they quite do in such instances. - -Galvin had the social and moral point of view of both the hawk and the -buzzard. According to Wood, who early made friends with him quite as he -did with the Chinese and others for purposes of study, he was identified -with some houses of prostitution in which he had a small financial -interest, as well as various political schemes then being locally -fostered by one and another group of low politicians who were constantly -getting up one scheme and another to mulct the city in some underhanded -way. He was a species of political and social grafter, having all the -high ideals of a bagnio detective: he began to interest Mr. Tobias -Mitchell, who was a creature of an allied if slightly higher type, and -the pair became reasonably good friends. Mitchell used him as an -assistant to Hazard, Bellairs, Bennett, Hartung and myself: he supplied -the paper with stories which we would rewrite. I used to laugh at him, -more or less to his face, as being a freak, which of course generated -only the kindliest of feelings between us. He always suggested to me the -type of detective or plain-clothes man who would take money from -street-girls, prey on them, as indeed I suspected him of doing. - -I wondered how he could make anything out of this newspaper connection -since, as Hartung and others told me, he could not write. It was -necessary to rewrite his stuff almost entirely. But his great -recommendation to Mitchell and others was that he could get news of -things where other reporters could not, among the police, detectives and -politicians, with whom he was evidently hand-in-hand. By reason of his -underworld connections many amazing details as to one form and another -of political and social jobbery came to light, which doubtless made him -invaluable to a city editor. - -When some of his stories were given to me to rewrite we were thrown into -immediate and clashing contact. Because of his leers and bravado, when -he knew he could not write two good sentences in order, I frequently -wanted to brain him but took it out in smiles and dry cynical comments. -His favorite expressions were “See?” and “I sez tuh him” or “He sez tuh -me,” always accompanied by a contemptuous wave of a hand or a -pugnaciously protruded chin. One of the chief reasons why I hated him -was that Dick Wood told me he had once remarked that newspaper work was -a beggar’s game at best and that _writers grew on trees_, meaning that -they were so numerous as to be negligible and not worth considering. - -I made the best of these trying situations when I had to do over a story -of his, extracting all the information I could and then writing it out, -which resulted in some of his stories receiving excellent space in the -day’s news and made him all the more pugnacious and sure of himself. And -at the same time these made him of more value to the paper. However, in -due time I left the _Globe-Democrat_, and one day, greatly to my -astonishment and irritation, he appeared at the North Seventh Street -station as a full-fledged reporter, having been given a regular position -by Mitchell and set to doing police work—out of which task at the Four -Courts, if I remember rightly, he finally ousted Jock Bellairs, who was -given to too much drinking. - -To my surprise and chagrin I noticed at once that he was, as if by -reason of past intimacies of which I had not the slightest idea, far -more en rapport with the sergeants and the captain than I had ever -dreamed of being. It was “Charlie” here and “Cap” there. But what roiled -me most was that he gave himself all the airs of a newspaper man, -swaggering about and talking of this, that and the other story he had -written (I having done some of them myself!). The crowning blow was that -he was soon closeted with the captain in his room, strolling in and out -of that sanctum as if it were his private demesne and giving me the -impression of being in touch with realms and deeds of which I was never -to have the slightest knowledge. This made me apprehensive lest in these -intimacies tales and mysteries should be unfolded that would have their -first light in the pages of the _Globe-Democrat_ and so leave me to be -laughed at as one who could not get the news. I watched the -_Globe-Democrat_ more closely than ever before for evidence of such -treachery on the part of the police as would result in a “scoop” for -him, at the same time redoubling my interest in such items as might -appear. The consequence was that on more than one occasion I made good -stories out of things which Mr. Galvin had evidently dismissed as -worthless; and now and then a case into which I had inquired at the -stationhouse appeared in the _Globe-Democrat_ with details which I had -not been able to obtain and concerning which the police had insisted -they knew nothing. - -For a long time, by dint of energy and a rather plain indication to all -concerned that I would not tolerate false dealing, I managed not only to -hold my own but occasionally to give my confrère a good beating—as when, -for one instance, a negro girl in one of those crowded alleys was cut -almost to shreds by an ex-lover armed with a razor, for reasons which, -as my investigation proved, were highly romantic. Some seven or eight -months before, this girl and her assailant had been living together in -Cairo, Illinois, and the lover, who was wildly fond of her, became -suspicious and finally satisfying himself that she was faithless set a -trap to catch her. He was a coal passer or stevedore, working now on one -boat and now on another plying the Mississippi between New Orleans and -St. Louis. And one day when she thought he was on a river steamer for a -week or two he burst in upon her and found her with another man. Death -would have been her portion, as well as that of her lover, had it not -been for the interference of friends which permitted the pair to escape. - -The man returned to his task as stevedore, working his way from one -river city to another. When he came to Memphis, Natchez, New Orleans, -Vicksburg or St. Louis, he disguised himself as a peddler selling -trinkets and charms and in this capacity walked the crowded negro -sections of these cities calling his wares. One of these trips finally -brought him to St. Louis, and here on a late August afternoon, ambling -up this stifling little alley calling out his charms and trinkets, he -had finally encountered her. The girl put her head out of the doorway. -Dropping his tray he drew a razor and slashed her cheeks and lips, arms, -legs, back and sides, so that when I arrived at the City Hospital she -was unconscious and her life despaired of. The lover, abandoning his -tray of cheap jewelry, which was later brought to the stationhouse and -exhibited, had made good his escape and was not captured, during my stay -in St. Louis at least. Her present paramour had also gone his way, -leaving her to suffer alone. - -Owing possibly to Galvin’s underestimate of its romance, this story -received only a scant stick as a low dive cutting affray in the -_Globe-Democrat_, while in the _Republic_ I had turned it into a negro -romance which filled all of a column. Into it I had tried to put the hot -river waterfronts of the different cities which the lover had visited, -the crowded negro quarters of Memphis, New Orleans, Cairo, the bold -negro life which two truants such as the false mistress and her lover -might enjoy. I had tried to suggest the sing-song sleepiness of the -levee boat-landings, the stevedores at their lazy labors, the idle, -dreamy character of the slow-moving boats. Even an old negro refrain -appropriate to a trinket peddler had been introduced: - -“Eyah—Rings, Pins, Buckles, Ribbons!” - -The barbaric character of the alley in which it occurred, lined with -rickety curtain-hung shacks and swarming with the idle, crooning, -shuffling negro life of the South, appealed to me. An old black mammy -with a yellow-dotted kerchief over her head, who kept talking of “disha -Gawge” and “disha Sam” and “disha Maquatia” (the girl), moved me to a -poetic frenzy. From a crowd of blacks that hung about the vacated shack -of the lovers after the girl had been taken away I picked up the main -thread of the story, the varying characteristics of the girl and her -lover, and then having visited the hospital and seen the victim I -hurried to the office and endeavored to convince Wandell that I had an -important story. At first he was not inclined to think so, negro life -being a little too low for local consumption, but after I had entered -upon some of the details he told me to go ahead. I wrote it out as well -as I could, and it went in on the second page. The next day, meeting -Galvin, having first examined the _Globe_ to see what had been done -there, I beamed on him cheerfully and was met with a snarl of rage. - -“You think you’re a hell of a feller, dontcha, because yuh can sling a -little ink? Yuh think yuh’ve pulled off sompin swell. Well, say, yuh’re -not near as much as yuh think yuh are. Wait an’ see. I’ve been up -against wordy boys like yuh before, an’ I can work all around ’em. All -you guys do is to get a few facts an’ then pad ’em up. Yuh never get the -real stuff, never,” and he snapped his fingers under my nose. “Wait’ll -we get a real case sometime, you an’ me, an’ I’ll show yuh sompin.” - -He glared at me with hard, revengeful eyes, and he then and there put a -fear into me from which I never recovered, although at the time I merely -smiled. - -“Is that so? That’s easy enough to say, now that you’re trimmed, but I -guess I’ll be right there when the time comes.” - -“Aw, go to hell!” he snarled, and I walked off smiling but beginning to -wonder nervously just what it was he was going to do to me, and how -soon. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XLV - - -SOME time before this (when I was still working for the -_Globe-Democrat_), there had occurred on the Missouri Pacific, about one -hundred and fifty miles west of St. Louis a hold-up, the story of which -interested me, although I had nothing to do with it. According to the -reports, seven lusty and daring bandits, all heavily armed and -desperate, had held up an eight-car Pullman and baggage express train -between one and two of the morning at a lonely spot, and after overawing -the passengers, had compelled the engineer and fireman to dismount, -uncouple the engine and run it a hundred paces ahead, then return and -help break open the door of the express car. This they did, using a -stick of dynamite or giant powder handed them by one of the bandits. And -then both were made to enter the express car, where, under the eye of -one of the bandits and despite the presence of the express messenger, -who was armed yet overawed, they were compelled to blow open the safe -and carry forth between twenty and thirty thousand dollars in bills and -coin, which they deposited on the ground in sacks and packages for the -bandits. Then, if you please, they were compelled to re-enter their -engine, back it up and couple it to the train and proceed upon their -journey, leaving the bandits to gather up their booty and depart. - -Naturally such a story was of great interest to St. Louis, as well as to -all the other cities near at hand. It smacked of the lawlessness of the -’forties. All banks, express companies, railroads and financial -institutions generally were intensely interested. The whole front page -was given to this deed, and it was worth it, although during my short -career in journalism in this region no less than a dozen amazing train -robberies took place in as many months in the region bounded by the -Mississippi and the Rockies, the Canadian line and the Gulf. Four or -five of them occurred within a hundred miles of St. Louis. - -The truth about this particular robbery was that there had not been -seven bandits but just one, an ex-railroad hand, turned robber for this -occasion only, and armed, as subsequent developments proved, with but a -brace of revolvers, each containing six shots, and a few sticks of -fuse-prepared giant powder! Despite the glowing newspaper account which -made of this a most desperate and murderous affair, there had been no -prowling up and down the aisles of the cars by bandits armed to the -teeth, as a number of passengers insisted (among whom was the Governor -of the State, his Lieutenant-Governor, several officers of his staff, -all returning from a military banquet or feast somewhere). Nor was there -any shooting at passengers who ventured to peer out into the darkness. -Just this one lone bandit, who was very busy up in the front attending -to the robbing. What made this story all the more ridiculous in the -light of later developments was that at the time the train stopped in -the darkness and the imaginary bandits began to shout and fire shots, -and even to rob the passengers of their watches, pins, purses, these -worthies of the State, or so it was claimed in guffawing newspaper -circles afterward, crawled under their seats or into their berths and -did not emerge until the train was well on its way once more. Long -before the true story of the lone bandit came out, the presence of the -Governor and his staff was well known and had lent luster to the deed -and strengthened the interest which later attached to the story of the -real bandit. - -The St. Louis newspaper files for 1893 will show whether or not I am -correct. This lone bandit, as it was later indisputably proved, was -nothing more than an ex-farm hand turned railroad hand and then -“baggage-smasher” at a small station. Owing to love and poverty he had -plotted this astounding coup, which, once all its details were revealed, -fascinated the American public from coast to coast. That a lone -individual should undertake such an astounding task was uppermost in -everybody’s mind, including that of our city editors, and to the task of -unraveling it they now bent their every effort. - -When the robbery occurred I was working for the _Globe-Democrat_; later, -when it was discovered by detectives working for the railroad and the -express company who the star robber was, I was connected with the -_Republic_. Early one afternoon I was shown a telegram from some -backwoods town in Missouri—let us say Bald Knob, just for a name’s -sake—that Lem Rollins (that name will do as well as any other), an -ex-employee of the Missouri Pacific, had been arrested by detectives for -the road and express company for the crime, and that upon searching his -room they had found most of the stolen money. Also, because of other -facts with which he had been confronted he had confessed that he and he -alone had been guilty of the express robbery. The dispatch added that he -had shown the detectives where the remainder of the money lay hidden, -and that this very afternoon he would be en route to St. Louis, -scheduled to arrive over the St. Louis & San Francisco, and that he -would be confined in the county jail here. Imagine the excitement. The -burglar had not told how he had accomplished this great feat, and here -he was now en route to St. Louis, and might be met and interviewed on -the train. From a news point of view the story was immense. - -When I came in Wandell exclaimed: “I’ll tell you what you do, -Dreiser—Lord! I thought you wouldn’t come back in time! Here’s a St. -Louis & San Francisco time-table; according to it you can take a local -that leaves here at two-fifteen and get as far as this place, Pacific, -where the incoming express stops. It’s just possible that the _Globe_ -and the other papers haven’t got hold of this yet—maybe they have, but -whatever happens, we won’t get licked, and that’s the main thing.” - -I hurried down to the Union Station, but when I asked for a ticket to -Pacific, the ticket agent asked “Which road?” - -“Are there two?” - -“Sure, Missouri Pacific, and St. Louis & San Francisco.” - -“They both go to the same place, do they?” - -“Yes; they meet there.” - -“Which train leaves first?” - -“St. Louis & San Francisco. It’s waiting now.” - -I hurried to it, but the thought of this other road in from Pacific -troubled me. Suppose the bandit should be on the other train instead of -on this! I consulted with the conductor when he came for my ticket and -was told that Pacific was the only place at which these two roads met, -one going west and the other southwest from there. “Good,” I thought. -“Then he is certain to be on this line.” - -But now another thought came to me: supposing reporters from other -papers were aboard, especially the _Globe-Democrat_! I rose and walked -forward to the smoker, and there, to my great disgust and nervous -dissatisfaction, was Galvin, red-headed, serene, a cigar between his -teeth, slumped low in his seat smoking and reading a paper as calmly as -though he were bent upon the most unimportant task in the world. - -“How now?” I asked myself. “The _Globe_ has sent that swine! Here he is, -and these country detectives and railroad men will be sure, on the -instant, to make friends with him and do their best to serve him. They -like that sort of man. They may even give him details which they will -refuse to give me. I shall have to interview my man in front of him, and -he will get the benefit of all my questions! At his request they may -even refuse to let me interview him!” - -I returned to my seat nervous and much troubled, all the more so because -I now recalled Galvin’s threat. But I was determined to give him the -tussle of his life. Now we would see whether he could beat me or -not—not, if fair play were exercised; of that I felt confident. Why, he -could not even write a decent line! Why should I be afraid of him?... -But I was, just the same. - -As the dreary local drew near Pacific I became more and more nervous. -When we drew up at the platform I jumped down, all alive with the -determination not to be outdone. I saw Galvin leap out, and on the -instant he spied me. I never saw a face change more quickly from an -expression of ease and assurance to one of bristling opposition and -distrust. How he hated me. He looked about to see who else might -dismount, then, seeing no one, he bustled up to the station agent to see -when the train from the west was due. I decided not to trail, and sought -information from the conductor, who assured me that the eastbound -express would probably be on time, five minutes later. - -“It always stops here, does it?” I inquired anxiously. - -“It always stops.” - -As we talked Galvin came back to the platform and stood looking up the -track. Our train now pulled out, and a few minutes later the whistle of -the express was heard. Now for a real contest, I thought. Somewhere in -one of those cars would be the bandit surrounded by detectives, and my -duty was to get to him first, to explain who I was and begin my -questioning, overawing Galvin perhaps with the ease with which I should -take charge. Maybe the bandit would not want to talk; if so I must make -him, cajole him or his captors, or both. No doubt, since I was the -better interviewer, or so I thought, I should have to do all the -talking, and this wretch would make notes or make a deal with the -detectives while I was talking. In a few moments the train was rolling -into the station, and then I saw my friend Galvin leap aboard and with -that iron effrontery and savageness which I always hated in him, begin -to race through the cars. I was about to follow him when I saw the -conductor stepping down beside me. - -“Is that train robber they are bringing in from Bald Knob on here? I’m -from the _Republic_, and I’ve been sent out here to interview him.” - -“You’re on the wrong road, brother,” he smiled. “He’s not on here. -They’re bringing him in over the Missouri Pacific. They took him across -from Bald Knob to Denton and caught the train there—but I’ll tell you,” -and he consulted his watch, “you might be able to catch that yet if you -run for it. It’s only across the field here. You see that little yellow -station over there? Well, that’s the Missouri Pacific depot. I don’t -know whether it stops here or not, but it may. It’s due now, but -sometimes it’s a little late. You’ll have to run for it though; you -haven’t a minute to spare.” - -“You wouldn’t fool me about a thing like this, would you?” I pleaded. - -“Not for anything. I know how you feel. If you can get on that train -you’ll find him, unless they’ve taken him off somewhere else.” - -I don’t remember if I even stopped to thank him. Instead of following -Galvin into the cars I now leaped to the little path which cut -diagonally across this long field, evidently well worn by human feet. As -I ran I looked back once or twice to see if my enemy was following me, -but apparently he had not seen me. I now looked forward eagerly toward -this other station, but, as I ran, I saw the semaphore arm, which stood -at right angles opposite the station, lower for a clear track for some -train. At the same time I spied a mail-bag hanging out on an express -arm, indicating that whatever this train was it was not going to stop -here. I turned, still uncertain as to whether I had made a mistake in -not searching the other train after all. Supposing the conductor had -fooled me.... Supposing the burglar were on there, and Galvin was -already beginning to question him! Oh, Lord, what a beat! And what would -happen to me then? Was it another case of three shows and no critic? I -slowed up in my running, chill beads of sweat bursting through my pores, -but as I did so I saw the St. Louis & San Francisco train begin to move -and from it, as if shot out of it, leaped Galvin. - -“Ha!” I thought. “Then the robber is not on there! Galvin has just -discovered it! He knows now that he is coming in on this line”——for I -could see him running along the path. “Oh, kind Heaven, if I can beat -him to it! If I can only get on and leave him behind! He has all of a -thousand feet still to run, and I am here!” - -Desperately I ran into the station, thrust my head in at the open office -window and called: - -“When is this St. Louis express due here?” - -“Now,” he replied surlily. - -“Does it stop?” - -“No, it don’t stop.” - -“Can it be stopped?” - -“It can _not_!” - -“You mean that you have no right to stop it?” - -“I mean I won’t stop it!” - -Even as he said this there came the shriek of a whistle in the distance. - -“Oh, Lord,” I thought. “Here it comes, and he won’t let me on, and -Galvin will be here any minute!” For the moment I was even willing that -Galvin should catch it too, if only I could get on. Think of what -Wandell would think if I missed it! - -“Will five dollars stop it?” I asked desperately, diving into my pocket. - -“No.” - -“Will ten?” - -“It might,” he replied crustily. - -“Stop it,” I urged and handed over the bill. - -The agent took it, grabbed a tablet of yellow order blanks which lay -before him, scribbled something on the face of one and ran out to the -track. At the same time he called to me: - -“Run on down the track. Run after it. She won’t stop here. She can’t. -Run on. She’ll go a thousand feet before she can slow up.” - -I ran, while he stood there holding up this thin sheet of yellow paper. -As I ran I heard the express rushing up behind me. On the instant it was -alongside and past, its wheels grinding and emitting sparks. It was -stopping! I should get on, and oh, glory be! Galvin would not! Fine! I -could hear the gritty screech of the wheels against the brakes as the -train came to a full stop. Now I would make it, and what a victory! I -came up to it and climbed aboard, but, looking back, I saw to my horror -that my rival had almost caught up and was now close at hand, not a -hundred feet behind. He had seen the signal, had seen me running, and -instead of running to the station had taken a diagonal tack and followed -me. I saw that he would make the train. I tried to signal the agent -behind to let the train go, but he had already done so. The conductor -came out on the rear platform and I appealed to him. - -“Let her go!” I pleaded. “Let her go! It’s all right! Go on!” - -“Don’t that other fellow want to get on too?” he asked curiously. - -“No, no, no! Don’t let him on!” I pleaded. “I arranged to stop this -train! I’m from the _Republic_! He’s nobody! He’s no right on here!” But -even as I spoke up came Galvin, breathless and perspiring, and crawled -eagerly on, a leer of mingled triumph and joy at my discomfiture written -all over his face. If I had had more courage I would have beaten him -off. As it was, I merely groaned. To think that I should have done all -this for him! - -“Is that so?” he sneered. “You think you’ll leave me behind, do you? -Well, I fooled you this trip, didn’t I?” and his lip curled. - -I was beaten. It was an immensely painful moment for me, to lose when I -had everything in my own hands. My spirits fell so for the moment that I -did not even trouble to inquire whether the robber was on the train. I -ambled in after my rival, who had proceeded on his eager way, satisfied -that I should have to beat him in the quality of the interview. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XLVI - - -FOLLOWING Galvin forward through the train, I soon discovered the -detectives and their prisoner in one of the forward cars. The prisoner -was a most unpromising specimen for so unique a deed, short, -broad-shouldered, heavy-limbed, with a squarish, unexpressive, dull -face, blue-gray eyes, dark brown hair, big, lumpy, rough hands—just the -hands one would expect to find on a railroad or baggage smasher—and a -tanned and seamed skin. He had on the cheap nondescript clothes of a -laborer; a blue hickory shirt, blackish-gray trousers, brown coat and a -red bandanna handkerchief tied about his neck. On his head was a small -round brown hat, pulled down over his eyes. He had the still, -indifferent expression of a captive bird, and when I came up after -Galvin and sat down he scarcely looked at me or at Galvin. - -Between him and the car window, to foil any attempt at escape in that -direction, and fastened to him by a pair of handcuffs, was the sheriff -of the county in which he had been taken, a big, bland, inexperienced -creature whose sense of his own importance was plainly enhanced by his -task. Facing him was one of the detectives of the road or express -company, a short, canny, vulture-like person, and opposite them, across -the aisle, sat still another “detective.” There may have been still -others, but I failed to inquire. I was so incensed at the mere presence -of Galvin and his cheap and coarse methods of ingratiating himself into -any company, and especially one like this, that I could scarcely speak. -“What!” I thought. “When the utmost finesse would be required to get the -true inwardness of all this, to send a cheap pig like this to thrust -himself forward and muddle what might otherwise prove a fine story! Why, -if it hadn’t been for me and my luck and my money, he wouldn’t be here -at all. And he was posing as a reporter—the best man of the _Globe_!” - -He had the detective-politician-gambler’s habit of simulating an intense -interest and enthusiasm which he did not feel, his face wreathing itself -into a cheery smile the while his eyes followed one like those of a -basilisk, attempting all the while to discover whether his assumed -friendship was being accepted at the value he wished. - -“Gee, sport,” he began familiarly in my presence, patting the burglar on -the knee and fixing him with that basilisk gaze, “that was a great trick -you pulled off. The papers’ll be crazy to find out how you did it. My -paper, the _Globe-Democrat_, wants a whole page of it. It wants your -picture too. Did you really do it all alone? Gee! Well, that’s what I -call swell work, eh, Cap?” and now he turned his ingratiating leer on -the county sheriff and the other detectives. In a moment or two more he -was telling the latter what an intimate friend he was of “Billy” -Desmond, the chief of detectives of St. Louis, and Mr. So-and-So, the -chief of police, as well as various other detectives and policemen. - -“The dull stuff!” I thought. “And this is what he considers place in -this world! And he wants a whole page for the _Globe_! He’d do well if -he wrote a paragraph alone!” - -Still, to my intense chagrin, I could see that he was making headway, -not only with the sheriff and the detectives but with the burglar -himself. The latter smiled a raw, wry smile and looked at him as if he -might possibly understand such a person. Galvin’s good clothes, always -looking like new, his bright yellow shoes, sparkling rings and pins and -gaudy tie, seemed to impress them all. So this was the sort of thing -these people liked—and they took him for a real newspaper man from a -great newspaper! - -Indeed the only time that I seemed to obtain the least grip on this -situation or to impress myself on the minds of the prisoner and his -captors, was when it came to those finer shades of questioning which -concerned just why, for what ulterior reasons, he had attempted this -deed alone; and then I noticed that my confrère was all ears and making -copious notes. He knew enough to take from others what he could not work -out for himself. In regard to the principal or general points, I found -that my Irish-Jewish friend was as swift at ferreting out facts as any -one, and as eager to know how and why. And always, to my astonishment -and chagrin, the prisoner as well as the detectives paid more attention -to him than to me. They turned to him as to a lamp and seemed to be -immensely more impressed with him than with me, although the main lines -of questioning fell to me. All at once I found him whispering to one or -other of the detectives while I was developing some thought, but when I -turned up anything new, or asked a question he had not thought of, he -was all ears again and back to resume the questioning on his own -account. In truth, he irritated me frightfully, and appeared to be -intensely happy in doing so. My contemptuous looks and remarks did not -disturb him in the least. By now I was so dour and enraged that I could -think of but one thing that would have really satisfied me, and that was -to attack him physically and give him a good beating—although I -seriously questioned whether I could do that, he was so contentious, -cynical and savage. - -However the story was finally extracted, and a fine tale it made. It -appeared that up to seven or eight months preceding the robbery, this -robber had been first a freight brakeman or yard hand on this road, -later being promoted to the position of superior switchman and assistant -freight handler. Previous to this he had been a livery stable helper in -the town in which he was eventually taken, and before that a farm hand -in that neighborhood. About a year before the crime this road, along -with many others, had laid off a large number of men, including himself, -and reduced the wages of all others by as much as ten per cent. -Naturally a great deal of labor discontent ensued. A number of train -robberies, charged and traced to dismissed and dissatisfied -ex-employees, now followed. The methods of successful train robbing were -so clearly set forth by the newspapers that nearly any one so inclined -could follow them. Among other things, while working as a freight -handler, Lem Rollins had heard of the many money shipments made by the -express companies and the manner in which they were guarded. The -Missouri Pacific, for which he worked, was a very popular route for -money shipments, both West and East, bullion and bills being in transit -all the while between St. Louis and the East, and Kansas City and the -West, and although express messengers even at this time, owing to -numerous train robberies which had been occurring in the West lately -were always well armed, still these assaults had not been without -success. The death of firemen, engineers, messengers, conductors and -even passengers who ventured to protest, as well as the fact that much -money had recently been stolen and never recovered, had not only -encouraged the growth of banditry everywhere but had put such an -unreasoning fear into most employees of the road as well as its -passengers, who had no occasion for risking their lives in defense of -the roads, that but few even of those especially picked guards ventured -to give the marauders battle. I myself during the short time I had been -in St. Louis had helped report three such robberies in its immediate -vicinity, in all of which cases the bandits had escaped unharmed. - -But the motives which eventually resulted in the amazing singlehanded -attempt of this particular robber were not so much that he was a -discharged and poor railroad hand unable to find any other form of -employment as that in his idleness, having wandered back to his native -region, he had fallen in love with a young girl. Here, being hard -pressed for cash and unable to make her such presents as he desired, he -had first begun to think seriously of some method of raising money, and -later, another ex—railroad hand showing up and proposing to rob a train, -he had at first rejected it as not feasible, not wishing to tie himself -up in a crime, especially with others; still later, his condition -becoming more pressing, he had begun to think of robbing a train on his -own account. - -Why alone—that was the point we were all most anxious to find -out—singlehanded, and with all the odds against him? Neither Galvin nor -myself could induce him to make this point clear, although, once I -raised it, we were both most eager to solve it. “Didn’t he know that he -could not expect to overcome engineer and fireman, baggage-man and -mail-man, to say nothing of the express messenger, the conductor and the -passengers?” - -Yes, he knew, only he had thought he could do it. Other bandits (so few -as three in one case of which he had read) had held up large trains; why -not one? Revolver shots fired about a train easily overawed all -passengers, as well as the trainmen apparently. It was a life and death -job either way, and it would be better for him if he worked it out alone -instead of with others. Often, he said, other men “squealed” or they had -girls who told on them. I looked at him, intensely interested and moved -to admiration by the sheer animal courage of it all, the “gall,” the -grit, or what you will, imbedded somewhere in this stocky frame. - -And how came he to fix on this particular train? I asked. Well, it was -this way: Every Thursday and Friday a limited running west at midnight -carried larger shipments of money than on other days. This was due to -exchanges being made between Eastern and Western banks; but he did not -know that. Having decided on one of these trains, he proceeded by -degrees to secure first a small handbag, from which he had scraped all -evidence of the maker’s name, then later, from other distant places, so -as to avoid all chance of detection, six or seven fused sticks of giant -powder such as farmers use to blow up stumps, and still later, two -revolvers holding six cartridges each, some cartridges, and cord and -cloth out of which he proposed to make bundles of the money. Placing all -this in his bag, he eventually visited a small town nearest the spot -which, because of its loneliness, he had fixed on as the ideal place for -his crime, and then, reconnoitering it and its possibilities, finally -arranged all his plans to a nicety. - -Here, as he now told us, just at the outskirts of this hamlet, stood a -large water-tank at which this express as well as nearly all other -trains stopped for water. Beyond it, about five miles, was a wood with a -marsh somewhere in its depths, an ideal place to bury his booty quickly. -The express was due at this tank at about one in the morning. The -nearest town beyond the wood was all of five miles away, a mere hamlet -like this one. His plan was to conceal himself near this tank and when -the train stopped, and just before it started again, to slip in between -the engine tender and the front baggage car, which was “blind” at both -ends. Another arrangement, carefully executed beforehand, was to take -his handbag (without the revolvers and sticks of giant powder, which he -would carry), and place it along the track just opposite that point in -the wood where he wished the train to stop. Here, once he had concealed -himself between the engine and the baggage car, and the train having -resumed its journey, he would keep watch until the headlight of the -engine revealed this bag lying beside the track, when he would rise up -and compel the engineer to stop the train. So far, so good. - -However, as it turned out, two slight errors, one of forgetfulness and -one of eyesight, caused him finally to lose the fruit of his plan. On -the night in question, between eight and nine, he arrived on the scene -of action and did as he had planned. He put the bag in place and boarded -the train. However, on reaching the spot where he felt sure the bag -should be, he could not see it. Realizing that he was where he wished to -work he rose up, covered the two men in the cab, drove them before him -to the rear of the engine, where under duress they were made to uncouple -it, then conducted them to the express car door, where he presented them -with a stick of giant powder and, ordered them to blow it open. This -they did, the messenger within having first refused so to do. They were -driven into the car and made to ‘blow open the safe, throwing out the -packages of bills and coin as he commanded. But during this time, -realizing the danger of either trainmen or passengers climbing down from -the cars in the rear and coming forward, he had fired a few shots toward -the passenger coaches, calling to imaginary companions to keep watch -there. At the same time, to throw the fear of death into the minds of -both engineer and fireman, he pretended to be calling to imaginary -confrères on the other side of the train to “keep watch over there.” - -“Don’t kill anybody unless you have to, boys,” he had said, or “That’ll -be all right, Frank. Stay over there. Watch that side. I’ll take care of -these two.” And then he would fire a few more shots. - -Once the express car door and safe had been blown open and the money -handed out, he had compelled the engineer and fireman to come down, -recouple the engine, and pull away. Only after the train had safely -disappeared did he venture to gather up the various packages, rolling -them in his coat, since he had lost his bag, and with this over his -shoulder he had staggered off into the night, eventually succeeding in -concealing it in the swamp, and then making off for safety himself. - -The two things which finally caused his discovery were, first, the loss -of the bag, which, after concealing the money, he attempted to find but -without success; and, second (and this he did not even know at the -time), that in the bag which he had lost he had placed some time before -and then forgotten apparently a small handkerchief containing the -initials of his love in one corner. Why he might have wished to carry -the handkerchief about with him was understandable enough, but why he -should have put it into the bag and then forgot it was not clear, even -to himself. From the detectives we now learned that the next day at noon -the bag was found by other detectives and citizens just where he had -placed it, and that the handkerchief had given them their first clue. -The Wood was searched, without success however, save that foot-prints -were discovered in various places and measured. Again, experts -meditating on the crime decided that, owing to the hard times and the -laying-off and discharging of employees, some of these might have had a -hand in it; and so in due time the whereabouts and movements of each and -every one of those who had worked for the road were gone into. It was -finally discovered that this particular ex-helper had returned to his -native town and had been going with a certain girl, and was about to be -married to her. Next, it was discovered that her initials corresponded -to those on the handkerchief. Presto, Mr. Rollins was arrested, a search -of his room made, and nearly all of the money recovered. Then, being -“caught with the goods,” he confessed, and here he was being hurried to -St. Louis to be jailed and sentenced, while we harpies of the press and -the law were gathered about him to make capital of his error. - -The only thing that consoled me, however, as I rode toward St. Louis and -tried to piece the details of his crime together, was that if I had -failed to make it impossible for Galvin to get the story at all, still, -when it came to the narration of it, I should unquestionably write a -better story, for he would have to tell his story to some one else, -while I should be able to write my own, putting in such touches as I -chose. Only one detail remained to be arranged for, and that was the -matter of a picture. Why neither Wandell nor myself, nor the editor of -the _Globe_, had thought to include an artist on this expedition was -more a fault of the time than anything else, illustrations for news -stories being by no means as numerous as they are today, and the -peripatetic photographer having not yet been invented. As we neared St. -Louis Galvin began to see the import of this very clearly, and suddenly -began to comment on it, saying he “guessed” we’d have to send to the -Four Courts afterward and have one made. Suddenly his eyes filled with a -shrewd cunning, and he turned to me and said: - -“How would it be, old man, if we took him up to the _Globe_ office and -let the boys make a picture of him—your friends, Wood and McCord? Then -both of us could get one right away. I’d say take him to the _Republic_, -only the _Globe_ is so much nearer, and we have that new flashlight -machine, you know” (which was true, the _Republic_ being very poorly -equipped in this respect). He added a friendly aside to the effect that -of course this depended on whether the prisoner and the officers in -charge were willing. - -“Not on your life,” I replied suspiciously and resentfully, “not to the -_Globe_, anyhow. If you want to bring him down to the _Republic_, all -right; we’ll have them make pictures and you can have one.” - -“But why not the _Globe_?” he went on. “Wood and McCord are your friends -more’n they are mine. Think of the difference in the distance. We want -to save time, don’t we? Here it is nearly six-thirty, and by the time we -get down there and have a picture taken and I get back to the office -it’ll be half past seven or eight. It’s all right for you, I suppose, -because you can write faster, but look at me. I’d just as lief go down -there as not, but what’s the difference? Besides, the _Globe’s_ got a -much better plant, and you know it. Either Wood or McCord’ll make a fine -picture, and when we explain to ’em how it is you’ll be sure to get one, -the same as us—just the same picture. Ain’t that all right?” - -“No it’s not,” I replied truculently, “and I won’t do it, that’s all. -It’s all right about Dick and Peter—I know what they’ll do for me if the -paper will let them, but I know the paper won’t let them, and besides, -you’re not going to be able to claim in the morning that this man was -brought to the _Globe_ first. I know you. Don’t begin to try to put -anything over on me, because I won’t stand for it, see? And if these -people do it anyhow I’ll make a kick at headquarters, that’s all.” - -For a moment he appeared to be quieted by this and to decide to abandon -his project, but later he took it up again, seemingly in the most -conciliatory spirit in the world. At the same time, and from now on, he -kept boring me with his eyes, a thing which I had never known him to do -before. He was always too hang-dog in looking at me; but now of a sudden -there was something bold and friendly as well as tolerant and cynical in -his gaze. - -“Aw, come on,” he argued. He was amazingly aggressive. “What’s the use -being small about it? The _Globe’s_ nearer. Think what a fine picture -it’ll make. If you don’t we’ll have to go clear to the office and send -an artist down to the jail. You can’t take any good pictures down there -tonight.” - -“Cut it,” I replied. “I won’t do it, that’s all,” but even as he talked -a strange feeling of uncertainty or confusion began to creep over me. -For the first time since knowing him, in spite of all my opposition of -this afternoon and before, I found myself not quite hating him but -feeling as though he weren’t such an utterly bad sort after all. What -was so wrong about this _Globe_ idea anyhow, I began suddenly to ask -myself, in the most insane and yet dreamy way imaginable. Why wouldn’t -it be all right to do that? Inwardly or downwardly, or somewhere within -me, something was telling me that it was all wrong and that I was making -a big mistake even to think about it. I felt half asleep or surrounded -by clouds which made everything he said seem all right. Still, I wasn’t -asleep, and now I didn’t believe a word he said, but—— - -“To the _Globe_, sure,” I found myself saying to myself in spite of -myself, in a dumb, half-numb way. “That wouldn’t be so bad. It’s nearer. -What’s wrong with that? Dick or Peter will make a good picture, and then -I can take it along,” only at the same time I was also thinking, “I -shouldn’t really do that. He’ll claim the credit for having brought this -man to the _Globe_ office. I’ll be making a big mistake. The _Republic_ -or nothing. Let him come down to the _Republic_.” - -In the meantime we were entering St. Louis and the station. By then, -somehow, he had not only convinced the sheriff and the other officers, -but the prisoner. They liked him and were willing to do what he said. I -could even see the rural love of show and parade gleaming in the eyes of -the sheriff and the two detectives. Plainly, the office of the _Globe_ -was the great place in their estimation for such an exhibition. At the -same time, between looking at me and the prisoner and the officers, he -had knitted a fine mental net from which I seemed unable to escape. Even -as I rose with these others to leave the train I cried: “No, I won’t -come in on this! It’s all right if you want to bring him down to the -_Republic_, or you can take him to the Four Courts, but I’m not going to -let you get away with this. You hear now, don’t you?” But then it was -too late. - -Once outside, Galvin laid hold of my arm in an amazingly genial fashion -and hung on it. In spite of me, he seemed to be master of the situation -and to realize it. Once more he began to plead, and getting in front of -me he seemed to do his best to keep my optical attention. From that -point on and from that day to this, I have never been able to explain to -myself what did happen. All at once, and much more clearly than before, -I seemed to see that his plan in regard to the _Globe_ was the best. It -would save time, and besides, he kept repeating in an almost sing-song -way that we would go first to the _Globe_ and then to the _Republic_. -“You come up with me to the _Globe_, and then I’ll go down with you to -the _Republic_,” he kept saying. “We’ll just let Wood or McCord take one -picture, and then we’ll all go down to your place—see?” - -Although I didn’t see I went. For the time, nothing seemed important. If -he had stayed by me I think he could have prevented my writing any story -at all. As it was he was so eager to achieve this splendid triumph of -introducing the celebrated bandit into the editorial rooms of the -_Globe_ first and there having him photographed and introduced to my old -chief, that he hailed a carriage, and, the six of us crowding into it, -we were bustled off in a trice to the door of the _Globe_, where, once I -reached it, and seeing him and the detectives and the bandit hurrying -across the sidewalk, I suddenly awoke to the asininity of it all. - -“Wait!” I called. “Say, hold on! Cut this! I won’t do it! I don’t agree -to this!” but it was too late. In a trice the prisoner and the rest of -them were up the two or three low steps of the main entrance and into -the hall, and I was left outside to meditate on the insanity of the -thing I had done. - -“Great God!” I suddenly exclaimed to myself. “What have I let that -fellow do to me? I’ve been hypnotized, that’s what it is! I’ve allowed -him to take a prisoner whom I had in my own hands at one time into the -office of our great rival to be photographed! He’s put it all over me on -this job—and I had him beaten! I had him where I could have shoved him -off the train—and now I let him do this to me, and tomorrow there’ll be -a long editorial in the _Globe_ telling how this fellow was brought -there first and photographed, and his picture to prove it!” I swore and -groaned for blocks as I walked towards the _Republic_, wondering what I -should do. - -Distinct as was my failure, it was so easy, even when practically -admitting the whole truth, to make it seem as though the police had -deliberately worked against the _Republic_. I did not even have to do -that but merely recited my protests, without admitting or insisting upon -hypnotism, which Wandell would not have believed anyhow. On the instant -he burst into a great rage against the police department, seeing -apparently no fault in anything I had done, and vowing vengeance. They -were always doing this; they did it to the _Republic_ when he was on the -_Globe_. Wait—he would get even with them yet! Rushing a photographer to -the jail, he had various pictures made, all of which appeared with my -story, but to no purpose. The _Globe_ had us beaten. Although I had -slaved over the text, given it the finest turns I could, still there on -the front page of the _Globe_ was a large picture of the bandit, seated -in the sanctum sanctorum of the great G-D, a portion of the figure, -although not the head, of its great chief standing in the background, -and over it all, in extra large type, the caption: - - “LONE TRAIN ROBBER VISITS OFFICE OF GLOBE - TO PAY HIS RESPECTS” - -and underneath in italics a full account of how he had willingly and -gladly come there. - -I suffered tortures, not only for days but for weeks and months, -absolute tortures. Whenever I thought of Galvin I wanted to kill him. To -think, I said to myself, that I had thought of the two trains and then -run across the meadow and paid the agent for stopping the train, which -permitted Galvin to see the burglar at all, and then to be done in this -way! And, what was worse, he was so gayly and cynically conscious of -having done me. When we met on the street one day, his lip curled with -the old undying hatred and contempt. - -“These swell reporters!” he sneered. “These high-priced ink-slingers! -Say, who got the best of the train robber story, eh?” - -And I replied—— - -But never mind what I replied. No publisher would print it. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XLVII - - -THINGS like these taught me not to depend too utterly on my own skill. I -might propose and believe, but there were things above my planning or -powers, and creatures I might choose to despise were not so helpless -after all. It fixed my thoughts permanently on the weakness of the human -mind as a directing organ. One might think till doomsday in terms of -human ideas, but apparently over and above ideas there were forces which -superseded or controlled them.... My own fine contemptuous ideas might -be superseded or set at naught by the raw animal or psychic force of a -man like Galvin. - -During the next few months a number of things happened which seemed to -broaden my horizon considerably. For one thing, my trip to Chicago -having revived interest in me in the minds of a number of newspaper men -there, and having seemingly convinced them of my success here, I was -bombarded with letters from one and another wanting to know whether or -not they could obtain work here and whether I could and would aid them. -At the close of the Fair in Chicago in October hard times were expected -in newspaper circles there, so many men being released from work. I had -letters from at least four, one of whom was a hanger-on by the name of -Michaelson, of whom more anon, who had attached himself to me largely -because I was the stronger and he expected aid of me. I have often -thought how frequently this has happened to me—one of my typical -experiences, as it is of every one who begins to get along. It is so -much easier for the strong to tolerate the weak than the strong. -Strength craves sycophancy. We want only those who will swing the censer -before our ambitions and desires. Michaelson, or “Mich,” was a poor hack -who had been connected with a commercial agency where daily reports had -to be written out as to the financial and social condition of John Smith -the butcher, or George Jones the baker. This led Mich, who was a -farm-boy to begin with, to imagine that he could write and that he would -like to run a country paper, only he thought to get some experience in -the city first. By some process, of which I forget the steps, he fixed -on me; and through myself and McEnnis, who was then so friendly to me, -had secured a tryout on the _Globe_ in Chicago. After I left McEnnis -quickly tired of him, and I heard of him next as working for the City -Press, an organization which served all newspapers, and paid next to -nothing. Next I heard that he was married (having succeeded so well!), -and still later he began to bombard me with pleas for aid in getting a -place in St. Louis. Also there were letters from much better men: H. L. -Dunlap, afterwards chief press advisor of President Taft; an excellent -reporter by the name of Brady, whom I have previously mentioned; and a -little later, John Maxwell. - -Meanwhile, in spite of my great failure in connection with Galvin, my -standing with Wandell seemed to rise rather than sink. Believe it or no, -I became a privileged character about this institution or its city room, -a singular thing in the newspaper profession. Because of specials I was -constantly writing for the Sunday paper, I was taken up by the sporting -editor, who wanted my occasional help in his work; the dramatic editor, -who wanted my help on his dramatic page, asking me to see plays from -time to time; and the managing editor himself, a small, courteous, -soft-spoken, red-headed man from Kansas City, who began to invite me to -lunch or dinner and talk to me as though I knew much (or ought to) about -the world he represented. I was so unfitted for all this intellectually, -my hour of stability and feeling for organization and control having not -yet arrived, that I scarcely knew how to manage it. I was nervous, shy, -poorly spoken, at least in their presence, while inwardly I was blazing -with ambition, vanity and self-confidence. I wanted nothing so much as -to be alone with my own desires and labors even though I believed all -the while that I did not and that I was lonely and neglected! - -Unsophisticated as I really was, I began to see Wandell as but a minor -figure in this journalistic world, or but one of many, likely to be here -and gone tomorrow, and I swaggered about, taking liberties which months -before I should never have dreamed of taking. He talked to me too freely -and showed me that he relied on my advice and judgment and admired my -work. All out-of-town assignments of any importance were given to me. -Occasionally at seven in the evening he would say that he would buy me a -drink if I would wait a minute, a not very wise thing to do. Later, -after completing one big assignment or another, I would stroll out of -the office at, say, eight-thirty or nine without a word or a -by-your-leave, and so respectful had he become that instead of calling -me down in person he began writing me monitory letters, couched in the -most diplomatic language but insisting that I abide by the rules which -governed other reporters. But by now I had grown so in my own estimation -that I smiled confidently, knowing very well that he would not fire me; -my salary was too small. Besides, I knew that he really needed me or -some one like me and I saw no immediate rival anywhere, one who would -work as hard and for as little. Still I would reform for a time, or -would plead that the managing or the dramatic editor had asked me to do -thus and so. - -“To hell with the managing editor!” he one day exclaimed in a rage. -“This is my department. If he wants you to sit around with him let him -come to me, or else you first see that you have my consent.” - -At the same time he remained most friendly and would sit and chat over -proposed stories, getting my advice as to how to do them, and as one man -after another left him or he wanted to enlarge his staff he would ask me -if I knew any one who would make a satisfactory addition. Having had -these appeals from Dunlap, Brady and several others still in Chicago, I -named first Dunlap (because I felt so sure of his merit), and then these -others. To my surprise, he had me write Dunlap to come to work, and when -he came and made good, Wandell asked me to bring still others to him. -This flattered me very much. I felt myself becoming a power. The result -was that after a time five men, three from Chicago and two from other -papers in St. Louis, were transferred to the staff of the _Republic_ by -reason of my recommendation, and that with full knowledge of the fact -that I was the one to whom they owed their opportunity. You may imagine -the airs which I assumed. - -About this time still another thing occurred which lifted me still more -in my own esteem. Strolling into the Southern Hotel one evening I -chanced to see my old chief, McCullagh, sitting as was his custom near -one of the pillars of the lobby reading his evening paper. It had always -been such a pleasing and homelike thing in my days at the _Globe_ to -walk into the lobby around dinner time and see this great chief in his -low shoes and white socks sitting and reading here as though he were in -his own home. It took away a bit of the loneliness of the city for me -for he appeared to have no other home than this and he was my chief. And -now, for the first time since I had so ignominiously retired from the -_Globe_, I saw him as before, smoking and reading. Hitherto I had -carefully avoided this and every other place at such hours as I was -likely to encounter him. But now I had grown so conceited that I was not -quite so much afraid of him; he was still wonderful to me but I was -beginning to feel that I had a future of my own and that I could achieve -it, regardless perhaps of the error that had so pained me then. Still I -felt to the full all that old allegiance, respect and affection which -had dominated me while I was on the _Globe_. He was my big editor, my -chief, and there was none other like him anywhere for me, and there -never was afterward. Nearing the newsstand, for which I made at sight of -him in the hope that I should escape unseen, I saw him get up and come -forward, perhaps to secure a cigar or another paper. I flushed guiltily -and looked wildly about for some place to hide. It was not to be. - -“Good evening, Mr. McCullagh,” I said politely as he neared me. - -“How d’ do?” he returned gutturally but with such an air of sociability -as I had never noticed in him before. “How d’ do? Well, you’re still -about, I see. You’re on the _Republic_, I believe?” - -“Yes, sir,” I said. I was so pleased and flattered to think that he -should trouble to talk to me at all or to indicate that he knew where I -was that I could scarcely contain myself. I wanted to thank him, to -apologize, to tell him how wonderful he was to me and what a fool I was -in my own estimation, but I couldn’t. My tongue was thick. - -“You like it over there?” - -“Yes, sir. Fairly well, sir.” I was as humble in his presence as a -jackie is before an officer. He seemed always so forceful and -commanding. - -“That little matter of those theaters,” he began after a pause, turning -and walking back to his chair, I following, “—Um! um! I don’t think you -understand quite how I felt about that. I was sorry to see you go. Um! -um!” and he cleared his throat. “It was an unfortunate mistake all -around. I want you to know that I did not blame you so much. Um! You -might have been relieved of other work. I don’t want to take you away -from any other paper, but—um!—I want you to know that if you are ever -free and want to come back you can. There is no prejudice in my mind -against you.” - -I don’t know of anything that ever moved me more. It was wonderful, -thrilling. I could have cried from sheer delight. He, my chief, saying -this to me! And after all those wretched hours! What a fool I was, I now -thought, not to have gone to him personally then and asked his -consideration. However, as I saw it, it was too late. Why change now and -go back? But I was so excited that I could scarcely speak, and probably -would not have known what to say if I had tried. I stood there, and -finally blurted out: - -“I’m very sorry, Mr. McCullagh. I didn’t mean to do what I did. It was a -mistake. I had that extra assignment and—” - -“O-oh, that’s all right—that’s all right,” he insisted gruffly and as if -he wished to be done with it once and for all. “No harm done. I didn’t -mind that so much. But you needn’t have left—that’s what I wish you to -understand. You could have stayed if you had wanted to.” - -As I viewed it afterward, my best opportunity for a secure position in -St. Louis was here. If I had only known it, or, knowing, had been quick -to take advantage of it, I might have profited greatly. Mr. McCullagh’s -mood was plainly warm toward me; he probably looked upon me as a foolish -and excitable but fairly capable boy whom it would have been his -pleasure to assist in the world. He had brought me from Chicago; perhaps -he wished me to remain under his eye.... Plainly, a word, and I could -have returned, I am sure of it, perhaps never to leave. As it was, -however, I was so nervous and excited that I took no advantage of it. -Possibly he noticed my embarrassment and was pleased. At any rate, as I -mumbled my thanks and gratitude for all he had done for me, saying that -if I were doing things over I should try to do differently, he -interrupted me with: - -“Just a moment. It may be that you have some young friend whom you want -to help to a position here in St. Louis. If you have, send him to me. -I’ll do anything I can for him. I’m always glad to do anything I can for -young men.” - -I smiled and flushed and thanked him, but for the life of me I could -think of nothing else to say. It was so strange, so tremendous, that -this man should want to do anything for me after all the ridiculous -things I had done under him that I could only hurry away, out of his -sight. Once in the shielding darkness outside I felt better but sad. It -seemed as if I had made a mistake, as if I should have asked him to take -me back. - -“Why, he as much as offered to!” I said to myself. “I can go back there -any time I wish, or he’ll give me a place for some one else—think of it! -Then he doesn’t consider me a fool, as I thought he did!” - -For days thereafter I went about my work trying to decide whether I -should resign from the _Republic_ and return to him, only now I seemed -so very important here, to myself at least, that it did not seem wise. -Wasn’t I getting along? Would returning to work under Mitchell be an -advantage? I decided not. Also, that I had no real excuse for leaving -the _Republic_ at present; so I did nothing, waiting to be absolutely -sure what I wanted to do. There was a feeling growing in me at this time -that I really did not want to stay in St. Louis at all, that perhaps it -would be better for me if I should move on elsewhere. McEnnis, as I -recalled, had cautioned me to that effect. Another newspaper man writing -me from Chicago and asking for a place (a friend of Dunlap’s, by the -way), I recommended him and he was put to work on the _Globe-Democrat_. -And so my reputation for influence in local newspaper affairs grew. - -And in the meantime still other things had been happening to me which -seemed to complicate my life here and make me almost a fixture in St. -Louis. For one thing, worrying over the well-being of my two brothers, -E—— and A——, who were still in Chicago, and wishing to do something to -improve their condition, I thought that St. Louis would be as good a -place for them as any in which to try their fortunes anew. Both had -seemed rather unhappy in Chicago and since I was getting along here I -felt that it would be only decent in me to give them a helping hand if I -could. The blood-tie was rather strong in me then. I have always had a -weakness for members of our family regardless of their deserts or mine -or what I thought they had done to me. I had a comfortable floor with -ample room for them if I chose to invite them, and I thought that my -advice and aid and enthusiasm might help them to do better. There was in -me then, and has remained (though in a fading form, I am sorry to say), -a sort of home-longing (the German _Heimweh_, no doubt) which made me -look back on everything in connection with our troubled lives with a -sadness, an ache, a desire to remedy or repair if possible some of the -ills and pains that had beset us all. We had not always been unhappy -together; what family ever has been? We had quarreled over trivial -things, but there had been many happy hours. And now we were separated, -and these two brothers were not doing as well as I. - -I say it in faint extenuation of all the many hard unkind things I have -done in my time, that at the thought of the possible misery some of my -brothers and sisters might be enduring, the lacks from which they might -be hopelessly suffering, my throat often tightened and my heart ached. -Life bears so hard on us all, on many so terribly. What, E—— or A—— -longing for something and not being able to afford it! It hurt me far -more than any lack of my own ever could. It never occurred to me that -they might be wishing to help me; it was always I, hard up or otherwise, -wishing that I might do something for them. And this longing in the face -of no complaint on their part and no means on mine to translate it into -anything much better than wishes and dreams made it all the more painful -at times. - -My plan was to bring them here and give them a little leisure to look -about for some way to better themselves, and then—well, then I should -not need to worry about them so much. With this in mind I wrote first to -E—— and then A——, and the former, younger and more restless and always -more attracted to me than any of the others, soon came on; while A—— -required a little more time to think. However, in the course of time he -too appeared, and then we three were installed in my rooms, the -harboring of my brothers costing me five additional dollars. Here we -kept bachelor’s hall, gay enough while it lasted but more or less -clouded over all the while by their need of finding work. - -I had forgotten, or did not know, or the fact did not make a -sufficiently sharp impression on me, that this was a panic year (1893) -and that there were hundreds of thousands of men out of work, the -country over. Indeed, trade was at a standstill, or nearly so. When I -first went on the _Republic_, if I had only stopped to remember, many -factories were closing down or slowing up, discharging men or issuing -scrip of their own wherewith to pay them until times should be better, -and some shops and stores were failing entirely. It had been my first -experience of a panic and should have made a deep impression on me had I -been of a practical turn, for one of my earliest assignments had been to -visit some of the owners of factories and stores and shops and ask the -cause of their decline and whether better times were in sight. -Occasionally even then I read long editorials in the _Republic_ or the -_Globe_ on the subject, yet I could take no interest in them. They were -too heavy, as I thought. Yet I can remember the gloom hanging over -streets and shops and how solemnly some of the manufacturers spoke of -the crisis and the hard times yet in store. There were to be hard times -for a year or more. - -I recall one old man at this time, very prosy and stiff and -conventional, “one of our best business men,” who had had a large iron -factory on the south side for fifty years and who now in his old age had -to shut down for good. Being sent out to interview him, I found him -after a long search in one of the silent wings of his empty foundry, -walking about alone examining some machinery which also was still. I -asked him what the trouble was and if he would resume work soon again. - -“Just say that I’m done,” he replied. “This panic has finished me. I -could go on later, I suppose, but I’m too old to begin all over again. I -haven’t any money now, and that’s all there is to it.” - -I left him meditating over some tool he was trying to adjust. - -In the face of this imagine my gayly inviting my two brothers to this -difficult scene and then expecting them to get along in some way, -persuading them to throw up whatever places or positions they had in -Chicago! Yet in so doing I satisfied an emotional or psychic longing to -have them near me and to do something for them, and beyond that I did -not think. - -In fact it took me years and years to get one thing straight in my poor -brain, and that was this: that aside from the economic or practical -possibility of translating one’s dreams into reality, the less one -broods over them the better. Here I was now, earning the very inadequate -stipend of eighteen dollars—or it may have been twenty or twenty-two, -for I have a dim recollection of having been given at least one raise in -pay—yet with no more practical sense than to undertake a burden which I -could not possibly sustain. For despite my good intentions I had no -surplus wherewith to sustain my brothers, assuming that their efforts -proved even temporarily unavailing. All this dream of doing something -for them was based on good will and a totally inadequate income. In -consequence it could not but fail, as it did, seeing that St. Louis was -far less commercially active than Chicago. It was not growing much and -there was an older and much more European theory of apprenticeship and -continuity in place and type of work than prevailed at that time in the -windy city. Work was really very hard to get, especially in -manufacturing and commercial lines, and in consequence my two brothers, -after only a week or two of pleasuring, which was all I could afford, -were compelled to hunt here and there, early and late, without finding -anything to do. True, I tried to help them in one way and another with -advice as to institutions, lines of work and the like, but to no end. - -But before and after they came, how enthusiastically and no doubt -falsely I painted the city of St. Louis, its large size, opportunities, -beauties, etc., and once they were here I put myself to the task of -showing them its charms; but to no avail. We went about together to -restaurants, parks, theaters, outlying places. As long as it was new and -they felt that there was some hope of finding work they were gay enough -and interested and we spent a number of delightful hours together. But -as time wore on and fading summer days proved that their dreams and mine -were hopeless and they could do no better here than in Chicago if as -well, their moods changed, as did mine. The burden of expense was -considerable. While paying gayly enough for food and rent, and even -laundry, for the three, I began to wonder whether I should be able to -endure the strain much longer. Love them as I might in their absence, -and happy as I was with them, still it was not possible for me to keep -up this pace. I was depriving myself of bare necessities, and I think -they saw it. I said nothing, of that I am positive, but after a month or -six weeks of trial and failure they themselves saw the point and became -unhappy over it. Our morning and evening hours, whenever I could see -them in the evening, became less and less gay. Finally A——, with his -usual eye for the sensible, announced that he was tired of searching -here and was about to return to Chicago. He did not like St. Louis -anyhow; it was a “hell of a place,” a third-rate city. He was going back -where he could get work. And E——, perhaps recalling past joys of which I -knew nothing, said he was going also. And so once more I was alone. - -Yet even this rough experience had no marked effect on me. It taught me -little if anything in regard to the economic struggle. I know now that -these two must have had a hard time replacing themselves in Chicago at -that time, but the meaning of it did not get to me then. As for E——, -some years later I persuaded him to join me in New York, where I managed -to keep him by me that time until he became self-supporting. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XLVIII - - -BECAUSE Miss W—— lived some distance from the city and would remain -there until her school season opened, I neglected to write to her; but -once September had come and the day of her return was near I began to -think of her and soon was as keenly interested as ever. Her simplicity -and charm came back to me with great force, and I one day sat down and -wrote her a brief letter recalling our Chicago days and asking her how -long it would be before she would be returning to St. Louis. I was -rather nervous now lest she should not answer. - -In due time, however, a note came in which she told me that she expected -to be at Florissant, about twenty or twenty-five miles out of St. Louis, -by September fifteenth, when her school work would begin, and that she -would be in St. Louis shortly afterward to visit an aunt and hoped to -see me. There was something about the letter so simple, direct and yet -artful that it touched me deeply. As I have said, I really knew nothing -of the conditions which surrounded her, and yet from the time I received -this letter I sensed something that appealed to me: a rurality and -simplicity plus a certain artful daintiness—the power, I suppose, to -pose under my glance and yet evade—which held me as in a vise. Beside -her, all others seemed harder, holder, or of coarser fiber. - -It does not matter now but as I look back on it there seems to have been -more of pure, exalted or frenetic romance in this thing (at first, and -even a year or so afterward), than in any mating experience of which I -have any recollection, with the possible exception of Alice. Unlike most -of my other affairs, this (in the beginning at least) seemed more a -matter of pure romance or poetry, a desire to see and be near her. -Indeed I could only think of her as a part of some idyllic country -scene, of walking or riding with her along some leafy country lane, of -rowing a little boat on a stream, of sitting with her under trees in a -hammock, of watching her play tennis, of being with her where grass, -flowers, trees and a blue sky were. In that idyllic world of the Fair -she had seemed well-placed. This must be a perfect love, I thought. Here -was your truly sweet, pure girl who inspired a man with a nobler passion -than mere lust. I began to picture myself with her in a home somewhere, -possibly here in St. Louis, of going with her to church even, for I -fancied she was of a strict religious bent, of pushing a baby -carriage—indeed, of leading a thoroughly domestic life, and being happy -in it! - -We fell into a correspondence which swiftly took on a regular form and -resulted, on my part, in a most extended correspondence, letters so long -that they surprised even myself. I found myself in the grip of a -letter-writing fever such as hitherto had never possessed me, writing -long, personal, intimate accounts of my own affairs, my work, my dreams, -what not, as well as what I thought of her, of the beauty of life as I -had seen it with her in Chicago, my theories and imaginings in regard to -everything. As I see it now, this was perhaps my first and easiest -attempt at literary expression, the form being negligible and yet -sufficient to encompass and embody without difficulty all the surging -and seething emotions and ideas which had hitherto been locked up in me, -bubbling and steaming to the explosion point. Indeed the newspaper forms -to which I was daily compelled to confine myself offered no outlet, and -in addition, in Miss W—— I had found a seemingly sympathetic and -understanding soul, one which required and inspired all the best that -was in me. I was now, as I told myself, on the verge of something -wonderful, a new life. I must work, save, advance myself and better my -condition generally, so as to be worthy of her.... At the very same time -I was still able to see beauty in other women and the cloying delights -of those who would never be able to be as good as she! They might be -good enough for me but far beneath her whose eyes were “too pure to -behold evil.” - -In the latter part of September she came to St. Louis and gave me my -first delighted sight of her since we had left Chicago. At this time I -was at the topmost toss of my adventures in St. Louis. I was, as I now -assumed, somebody. By now also I had found a new room in the very heart -of the city, on Broadway near the Southern, and was leading a bachelor -existence under truly metropolitan circumstances. This room was on the -third floor rear of a building which looked out over some nondescript -music hall whose glass roof was just below and from whence nightly, and -frequently in the afternoon, issued all sorts of garish music hall -clatter, including music and singing and voices in monologue or -dialogue. One block south were the Southern Hotel, Faust’s Restaurant, -and the Olympic Theater. In the block north were the courthouse and -Dick’s old room, which by now he had abandoned, having in spite of all -his fine dreams of a resplendent heiress married a girl whom together we -had met in the church some months before—a circus-rider! Thereafter he -had removed to a prosaic flat on the south side, an institution which -seemed to me but a crude and rather pathetic attempt at worthless -domesticity. - -I should like to report here that something over a year later this first -marriage of his terminated in the death of his wife. Later—some two or -three years—he indulged in a second most prosaic and inartistic -romance—wedding finally, on this occasion, the daughter of a carpenter. -And her name—Sopheronisby Boanerga Watkins. And a year or two after this -she was burned to death by an exploding oil stove. And this was the man -who was bent on capturing an heiress. - -In my new room therefore, because it was more of a center, I had already -managed to set up a kind of garret salon, which was patronized by Dick -and Peter, Rodenberger, Dunlap, Brady and a number of other -acquaintances. No sooner was I settled here than Michaelson, whose -affairs I had straightened out by getting him a place on the _Republic_, -put in an appearance, and also John Maxwell, who because of untoward -conditions in Chicago had come to St. Louis to better his fortunes. But -more of that later. - -In spite of all these friends and labors and attempts at aiding others, -it was my affair with Miss W—— which now completely engrossed me. So -seriously had I taken this new adventure to heart that I was scarcely -able to eat or sleep. Once I knew definitely that she was inclined to -like me, as her letters proved, and the exact day of her arrival had -been fixed, I walked on air. I had not been able to save much money -since I had been on the _Republic_ (possibly a hundred dollars all told, -and that since my brothers had left), but of that I took forty or fifty -and bought a new fall suit of a most pronounced if not startling -pattern, the coat being extra long and of no known relation to any -current style (an idea of my own), to say nothing of such extras as -patent leather shoes, ties, collars, a new pearl-gray hat—all purchased -in view of this expected visit for her especial delectation! Although I -had little money for what I considered the essentials of -courtship—theater boxes, dinners and suppers at the best restaurants, -flowers, candy—still I hoped to make an impression. Why shouldn’t I? -Being a newspaper man and an ex-dramatic editor, to say nothing of my -rather close friendship with the present _Republic_ critic, I could -easily obtain theater tickets, although the exigencies of my work often -prevented, as I discovered afterward, my accompanying her for more than -an hour at a time. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER XLIX - - -ON the day of her arrival I arrayed myself in my best, armed myself with -flowers, candy and two tickets for the theater, and made my way out to -her aunt’s in one of the simpler home streets in the west end. I was so -fearful that my afternoon assignment should prove a barrier to my seeing -her that day that I went to her as early as ten-thirty, intending to -offer her the tickets and arrange to stop for her afterwards at the -theater; or, failing that, to see her for a little while in the evening -if my assignments permitted. I was so vain of my standing in her eyes, -so anxious to make a good impression, that I was ashamed to confess that -my reportorial duties made it difficult for me to see her at all. After -my free days in Chicago I wanted her to think that I was more than a -mere reporter, a sort of traveling correspondent and feature man, which -in a way I was, only my superiors were determined to keep me for some -reason in the ordinary reportorial class taking daily assignments as -usual. Instead of confessing my difficulties I made a great show of -freedom. - -I found her in a small tree-shaded, cool-looking brick house, with a -brick sidewalk before it and a space of grass on one side. Never did -place seem more charming. I stared at it as one might at a shrine. Here -at last was the temporary home of my beloved, and she was within! - -I knocked, and an attractive slip of a girl (her niece, as I learned) -answered. I was shown into a long, dustless, darkened parlor. After -giving me time to weigh the taste and affluence of her relatives -according to my standards, she arrived, the beloved, the beautiful. In -view of many later sadder things, it seems that here at least I might -attempt to do her full justice. She seemed exquisite to me then, a trim, -agreeable sylph of a girl, with a lovely oval face, stark red hair -braided and coiled after the fashion of a Greek head, a clear pink skin, -long, narrow, almond-shaped, gray-blue eyes, delicate, graceful hands, a -perfect figure, small well-formed feet. There was something of the wood -or water nymph about her, a seeking in her eyes, a breath of wild winds -in her hair, a scarlet glory to her mouth. And yet she was so obviously -a simple and inexperienced country girl, caught firm and fast in -American religious and puritanic traditions and with no hint in her mind -of all the wild, mad ways of the world. Sometimes I have grieved that -she ever met me, or that I so little understood myself as to have sought -her out. - -I first saw her, after this long time, framed in a white doorway, and -she made a fascinating picture. Here, as in Chicago, she seemed shy, -innocent, questioning, as one who might fly at the first sound. I gazed -in admiration. Despite a certain something in her letters which had -indirectly assured me of her affection or her desire for mine, still she -held aloof, extending a cool hand and asking me to sit down, smiling -tenderly and graciously. I felt odd, out of place, and yet wonderfully -drawn to her, passionately interested. What followed by way of -conversation I cannot remember now—talk of the Fair, I suppose, some of -those we had known, her summer, mine. She took my roses and pinned some -of them on, placing the rest in a jar. There was a piano here, and after -a time she consented to play. In a moment, it seemed, it was -twelve-thirty, and I had to go. - -I walked on air. It seemed to me that I had never seen any one more -beautiful—and I doubt now that I had. There was no reason to be applied -to the thing: it was plain infatuation, a burning, consuming desire for -her. If I had lost her then and there, or any time within a year -thereafter, I should have deemed it the most amazing affair of my life. - -I returned to the office and took some assignment, which I cut short at -three-thirty in order to get back to the Grand Opera House to sit beside -her. The play was an Irish love drama, with Chauncey Olcott, the singing -comedian, in the title rôle. With her beside me I thought it perfect. -Love! Ah, love! When the performance was ended I was ready to weep over -the torturing beauty of life. Outside we found the matinée crowds, the -carriages, the sense of autumn gayety and show in the air. A nearby -ice-cream and candy store was crowded to suffocation. Young girls of the -better families hummed like bees. Because of my poverty and uncertain -station I felt depressed, at the same time pretending to a station which -I felt to be most unreal. The mixture of ambition and uncertainty, -pride, a gay coaxing in the air, added to the need to return to -conventional toil—how these tortured me! Nothing surprises me now more -than my driving emotions all through this period. I was as one -possessed. - -We parted at a street-car—when I wanted a carriage! We met at her aunt’s -home at eight-thirty, because I saw an opportunity of deliberately -evading an assignment. In this simple parlor I dreamed the wildest, the -most fantastic dreams. She was the be-all and the end-all of my -existence. Now I must work for her, wait for her, succeed for her! Her -mediocre piano technique seemed perfect, her voice ideal! Never was such -beauty, such color. St. Louis took on a glamour which it had never -before possessed.... If only this love affair could have gone on to a -swift fruition it would have been perfect, blinding. - -But all the formalities, traditions, beliefs, of a conventional and -puritanic region were in the way. Love, as it is in most places, and -despite its consuming blaze, was a slow process. There must be many such -visits, I knew, before I could even place an arm about her. I was to be -permitted to take her to church, to concerts, the theater, a restaurant -occasionally, but nothing more. - -The next morning I went to church with her; the next afternoon -unavoidable work kept me from her, but that night I shirked and stayed -with her until eleven. The next morning, since she had to catch an early -train for Florissant, I slept late, but during the next two weeks (she -could not come oftener, having to spend one Sunday with her “folks,” as -she referred to them) I poured forth my amazement and delight on reams -of thin paper. I wonder now where they are. Once there was a trunk full. - -Perhaps the most interesting effect of this sudden fierce passion was -the heightened color it lent to everything. Never before had I realized -quite so clearly the charm of life as life, its wondrous singing, its -intense appeal. I remember witnessing a hanging about this time, -standing beside the murderer when the trap was sprung, and being -horrified, sickened to death, yet when I returned to the office and -there was a letter from her—the world was perfect once more, no evil or -pain in it! I followed up the horrors of a political catastrophe, in -which a city treasurer shot himself to escape the law—but a letter from -her, and the world was beautiful. A negro in an outlying county -assaulted a girl, and I arrived in time to see him lynched, but walking -in the wood afterward, away from the swinging body, I thought of her—and -life contained not a single ill. Such is infatuation. If I had been -alive before, now I was more than alive. I tingled all over with longing -and aspiration—to be an editor, a publisher, a playwright—I know not -what. The simple homes I had dreamed over before as representing all -that was charming and soothing and shielding were now twice as -attractive. Love, all its possibilities, paraded before my eyes, a -gorgeous, fantastic procession. Love! Love! The charm of a home in which -it would find its most appropriate setting! The brooding tenderness of -it! Its healing force against the blows of ordinary life! To be married, -to have your beloved with you, to have a charming home to which to -return of an evening, or at any hour, sick or well! I was young, in good -health and spirits. In a few years I should be neither so young nor so -vital. Age would descend, cold, gray, thin, passionless. This glorious, -glorious period of love, desire, would be gone, and then what? Ah, and -then what! If I did not achieve now and soon all that I desired in the -way of tenderness, fortune, beauty—now when I was young and could enjoy -it—my chance would once and for all be over. I should be helpless. Youth -would come no more! Love would come no more! But now—now—life was -sounding, singing, urging, teasing; but also it was running away fast, -and what was I doing about it? What could I do? - -The five months which followed were a period of just such color and -mood, the richest period of rank romanticism I have ever endured. At -times I could laugh, at others sigh, over the incidents of this period, -for there is as little happiness in love as there is out of it, at least -in my case. If I had only known myself I might have seen, and that -plainly, that it was not any of the charming conventional things which -this girl represented but her charming physical self that I craved. The -world, as I see it now, has trussed itself up too helplessly with too -many strings of convention, religion, dogma. It has accepted too many -rules, all calculated for the guidance of individuals in connection with -the propagation and rearing of children, the conquest and development of -this planet. This is all very well for those who are interested in that, -but what of those who are not? Is it everybody’s business to get married -and accept all the dictates of conventional society—that is, bear and -rear children according to a given social or religious theory? Cannot -the world have too much of mere breeding? Are two billion wage slaves, -for instance, more advantageous than one billion, or one billion more -than five hundred million? Or is an unconquered planet less interesting -than a conquered one? Isn’t the mere _contact of love_, if it produces -ideas, experiences, tragedies even, as important as raising a few -hundred thousand coal miners, railroad hands or heroes destined to be -eventually ground or shot in some contest with autocratic or -capitalistic classes? And, furthermore, I am inclined to suspect that -the monogamous standard to which the world has been tethered much too -harshly for a thousand years or more now is entirely wrong. I do not -believe that it is Nature’s only or ultimate way of continuing or -preserving itself. Nor am I inclined to accept the belief that it -produces the highest type of citizen. The ancient world knew little of -strict monogamy, and some countries today are still without it. Even in -our religious or moralistic day we are beginning to see less and less of -its strict enforcement. (Fifty thousand divorces in one State in one -year is but a straw.) It is a product, I suspect, of intellectual -lethargy or dullness, a mental incapacity for individuality. What we -have achieved is a vast ruthless machine for the propagation of people -far beyond the world’s need, even its capacity to support decently. In -special cases, where the strong find themselves, we see more of secret -polygamy and polyandry than is suspected by the dull and the ignorant. -Economic opportunity, plus love or attraction, arranges all this, all -the churches, laws, disasters to the contrary notwithstanding. Love or -desire, where economic conditions permit, will and does find a way. - -Here I was dreaming of all the excellencies of which the -conventionalists prate in connection with home, peace, stability and the -like, anxious to put my neck under that yoke, when in reality what I -really wanted, and the only thing that my peculiarly erratic and -individual disposition would permit, was mental and personal freedom. I -did not really want any such conventional girl at all, and if I had -clearly understood what it all meant I might have been only too glad to -give her up. What I wanted was the joy of possessing her without any of -the hindrances or binding chains of convention and monogamy, but she -would none of it. This unsatisfied desire, added to a huge world-sorrow -over life itself, the richness and promise of the visible scene, the -sting and urge of its beauty, the briefness of our days, the uncertainty -of our hopes, the smallness of our capacity to achieve or consume where -so much is, produced an intense ache and urge which endured until I left -St. Louis. I was so staggered by the promise and the possibilities of -life, at the same time growing more and more doubtful of my capacity to -achieve anything, that I was falling into a profound sadness. Yet I was -only twenty-two, and between these thoughts would come intense waves of -do and dare: I was to be all that I fancied, achieve all that I dreamed. -As a contrast to all these thoughts, fancies, and depressions, I -indulged in a heavy military coat of the most disturbing length, a -wide-brimmed Stetson hat, Southern style, gloves, a cane, soft pleated -shirts—a most _outré_ equipment for all occasions including those on -which I could call upon her or take her to a theater or restaurant. I -remember one Saturday morning, when I was on my way to see my lady love -and had stopped at the Olympic to secure two seats, meeting a dapper, -rather flashy newspaper man. I had on the military coat, and the hat, a -pair of bright yellow gloves, narrow-toed patent leather shoes, a ring, -a pin, a suit brighter than his own, a cane, and I was carrying a -bouquet of roses. I was about to take a street-car out to her place, not -being prosperous enough to hire a carriage. - -“Well, for sake, old man, what’s up?” he called, seizing me by the arm. -“You’re not getting married, are you?” - -“Aw, cut the comedy!” I replied, or words to that effect. “Can’t a -fellow put on any decent clothes in this town without exciting the -natives? What’s wrong?” - -“Nothing, nothing,” he replied apologetically. “You look swell. You got -on more dog than ever I see a newspaper man around here pull. You must -be getting along! How are things at the _Republic_, anyhow?” - -We now conversed more affably. He touched the coat gingerly and with -interest, felt of the quality of the cloth, looked me up and down, -seemingly with admiration—more likely with amazement—shook his head -approvingly and said: “Some class, I must say. You’re right there, -sport, with the raiment,” and walked off. - -It was in this style that I prosecuted my quest. For my ordinary day’s -labor I wore other clothes, but sometimes, when stealing a march on my -city editor Saturday afternoons or Sundays or evenings, I had to perform -a lightning change act in order to get into my finery, pay my visit, and -still get back to the office between eleven and twelve, or before -six-thirty, in my ordinary clothes. Sometimes I changed as many as three -times in one afternoon or evening. My room being near here facilitated -this. A little later, when I was more experienced, I aided myself to -this speed by wearing all but the coat and hat, an array in which I -never presumed to enter the office. Even my ultra impressive suit and my -shoes, shirts and ties attracted attention. - -“Gee whiz, Mr. Dreiser!” my pet office boy at the _Republic_ once -remarked to me as I entered in this array, “you certainly look as though -you ought to own the paper! The boss don’t look like you.” - -Wandell, Williams, the sporting editor, the religious editor, the -dramatic editor, all eyed me with evident curiosity. “You certainly are -laying it on thick these days,” Williams genially remarked, beaming on -me with his one eye. - -As for my lady love—well, I reached the place where I could hold her -hand, put my arms about her, kiss her, but never could I induce her to -sit upon my lap. That was reserved for a much later date. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER L - - -ALL love transports contain an element of the ridiculous, I presume, but -to each how very important. I will pass mine over with what I have -already said, save this: that each little variation in her costume, -however slight, in her coiffure, or the way she looked or walked amid -new surroundings, all seemed to re-emphasize the perfection that I had -discovered and was so fortunate as to possess. She gave me her -photograph, which I framed in silver and hung in my room. I begged for a -lock of her hair, and finding a bit of blue ribbon that I knew belonged -to her purloined that. She would not allow me to visit at Florissant, -where she taught, being bashful about confessing this new relationship, -but nevertheless, on several Sundays when she was at her home “up the -State” I visited this glorious region, hallowed by her presence, and -tried to decide for myself just where she lived and taught—her sacred -rooms! A little later an exposition or State Fair was held in the -enormous exposition building at Fourteenth and Olive streets, and here, -when the Sousa concerts were first on, and later when the gay Veiled -Prophets festivities began (a sort of Roman Harvest rejoicing, winding -up with a great parade and ball), I saw more of her than ever before. It -was during this time, in a letter, that she confessed that she loved me. -Before this, however, seeing that I made no progress in any other way, -being allowed no intimacy beyond an occasional stolen kiss, I had -proposed to her and been accepted with a kind of morbid formalism. I had -had to ask her in the most definite way and be formally accepted as her -affianced husband. Thereafter I squandered my last cent to purchase a -diamond ring at wholesale, secured through a friend on the _Globe_, and -then indeed I felt myself set up in the world, as one who was destined -to tread the conventional and peaceful ways of the majority. - -Yet in Spite of my profound infatuation I was still able to see beauty -in other women and be moved by it. The chemical attractions and -repulsions which draw us away from one and to another are beginning to -be more clearly understood in these days and to undermine our more -formal notions of stability and order, but even at that time this -variation in myself might have taught me to look with suspicion on my -own emotions. I think I did imagine that I was a scoundrel in harboring -lusts after other women, when I was so deeply involved with this one, -but I told myself that I must be peculiarly afflicted in this way, that -all men were not so, that I myself should and probably would hold myself -in check eventually, etc.; all of which merely proves how disjointed and -non-self-understanding can be the processes of the human mind. Not only -do we fail to see ourselves as others see us but we have not the -faintest conception of ourselves as we really are. - -An incident which might have proved to me how shallow was the depth of -my supposed feeling, and that it was nothing more than a strong -sex-desire, was this: One night about twelve a telephone message to the -_Republic_ stated that on a branch extension of one of the car lines, -about seven or eight miles from the city, a murder had just been -committed. Three negroes entering a lone “Owl” car, which ran from the -city terminus to a small village had shot and killed the conductor and -fired on the motorman. A young girl who had been on board, the only -passenger, had escaped by the front door and had not since been heard -of—or so the telephone message stated. As I happened to be in the office -at the time, the story was assigned to me. - -By good luck I managed to catch a twelve o’clock theater car and arrived -at the end of the line at twelve forty, where I learned that the body of -the dead man had been transferred to his home at some point farther out, -and that a posse of male residents of the region had already been -organized and were now helping the police to search this country round -for the negroes. When I asked about the girl who had been on board one -of the men at the barn exclaimed: “Sure, she’s a wonder! You want to -tell about her. She hunted up a house, borrowed a horse, and notified -everybody along the route. She’s the one that first phoned the news.” - -Here was a story indeed. Midnight, a murder, dark woods, lonely country. -A girl flees from three murderous, drunken negroes, borrows a horse, and -tells all the countryside. What more could a newspaper man want? I was -all ears. Now if she were only good-looking! - -I now realized that my first duty was not so much to see the body of the -dead man and interview his wife, although that was an item not to be -neglected, or the motorman who had escaped with his life, although he -was here and told me all that had happened quite accurately, but this -girl, this heroine, who, they said, was no more than seventeen or -eighteen. - -The car in which the murder had been committed was here in the barn. The -blood-stains of the victim were still to be seen on the floor. I took -this car, which was now carrying a group of detectives, a doctor and -some other officials, to the dead man’s house, or to the house of the -girl, I forget which. When I arrived there I discovered that a large -comfortable residence some little distance beyond the home of the dead -man was the scene of all news and activity, for here it was that the -body of the conductor had been carried, and from here the girl had taken -a horse and ridden far and wide to call others to her aid. When I -hurried up to the door she had returned and was holding a sort of levee. -The large livingroom was crowded, and in the center, under the flare of -a hanging lamp, was this maiden, rather pretty, with her hair brushed -straight back from her forehead, and her face alight with the intensity -of her recent experiences and actions. I drew near and surveyed her over -the shoulders of the others as she talked, finally getting close enough -to engage her in direct conversation, as was my duty. She was very -simple in manner and speech—not quite the dashing heroine I had imagined -yet attractive enough. For my benefit, and possibly for the dozenth -time, she narrated all that had befallen her from the time she boarded -the car until she had leaped from the front step after the shot and hid -in the wood, finding her way to this house eventually and borrowing a -horse to notify others, because, for one thing, there was no telephone -here, and for another there was no man at home at the time who could -have gone for her. With a kind of naïf enthusiasm she explained to me -that once the shot had been fired and the conductor had fallen face down -in the car (he had come in to rebuke these boisterous blacks, who were -addressing bold remarks to her), she was cold with fright, but that -after she had left the car she felt calmer and determined to do -something to aid in the capture of the murderers. Hiding behind bushes, -she had seen the negroes dash out of the rear door of the car and run -back along the track into the darkness, and had then hurried in the -other direction, coming to this house and summoning aid.... It was a -fine story, her ride in the darkness and how people rose to come out and -help her. I made copious notes in my mind, took her name and address, -visited the conductor’s wife, who was a little distance away, and then -hurried to the nearest telephone to communicate my news. - -During this conversation with the girl I made an impression on her. As -we talked I had drawn quite close and my enthusiasm for her deed had -drawn forth various approving smiles and exclamations. When I took her -address I said I should like to know more of her, and she smiled and -said: “Well, you can see me any time tomorrow.” This was Saturday night. - -The _Republic_ at this time had instituted what it called a “reward for -heroism” medal to be given to whosoever should perform a truly heroic -deed during the current year within the city or its immediate suburbs. -Thinking over this girl’s deed as I went along, and wondering how I -should proceed in the matter of retaining her interest, I thought of -this medal and asked myself why it should not be given to her. She was -certainly worthy of it. Plainly she was a hero, riding thus in the -darkness and in the face of such a crime—and good-looking too!—and -eighteen! After I had reached the office and written a most glowing -account of all this for the late edition, I decided to speak to Wandell -the next day, and did. He fell in with the idea at once. - -“A fine idea,” he squeaked shrilly. “Bully—we’ll do that! You’ll have to -go back, though, and see whether she’ll accept it. Sometimes these -people won’t stand for all this notoriety stuff, you know. But if she -does——By the way,” he asked quickly, “is she good-looking?” - -“Sure,” I replied enthusiastically. “She’s very good-looking—a beauty, I -think.” - -“Well, if that’s the case all the better. She must be made to give you a -picture. Don’t let her crawl out of that, even if you have to bring her -down here or take her to a photographer. If she accepts I’ll order the -medal tomorrow, and you can write the whole thing up. It’ll make a fine -Sunday feature, eh? Dreiser’s girl hero! What!” - -This medal idea was just the thing to take me back to her, the excuse I -needed and one that ought to bring her close to me if anything could. -For the time being, I had forgotten all about Miss W—— and her charms. -She came into my mind, but it was so all-important for me to follow up -this new interest—one that I could manage quite as well as not, along -with the other. I dressed in my very best clothes the next morning, -excluding the amazing coat, and sallied forth to find my heroine. After -considerable difficulty I managed to place her in a very simple home on -what had once been a farm. Her father, who opened the door, was a German -of the most rigid and austere mien—a Lutheran, I think—her mother a -simple and pleasant-looking fat _hausfrau_. In the garish noon light my -heroine was neither so melodramatic nor so poignant as she had seemed -the night before. There was something less alive and less delicate in -her composition, mental and physical, and yet she was by no means dull. -Perhaps she lacked the excitement and the crowd. She had a peculiar -mouth, a little wide but sweet, and a most engaging smile. Incidentally, -it now developed that she had a younger sister, darker, more graceful, -almost more attractive than herself. - -The two of them, as I soon found upon entering into conversation, -offered that same problem in American life that so many children of -foreign-born parents do. Although by no means poor, they were restless, -if not unhappy, in their state. The old German father was one of those -stern religionists and moralists who plainly had always held, or tried -to hold, his two children in severest check. At the same time, as was -obvious, this keen strident American life was calling to them as never -had his fatherland to him. They were both intensely alive and eager for -adventure. Never before, apparently, had they seen a reporter, never -been so close to a really truly thrilling tragedy. And Gunda—that was my -heroine’s name—had actually been a part of it—how, she could now -scarcely think. Her parents were not at all stirred by her triumph or -the publicity that attached to it. In spite of the fact that her father -owned this property and was sufficiently well-placed to maintain her in -school or idleness (American style), she was already a clerk in one of -the great stores of the city, and her sister was also preparing to go to -work, having just left school. - -I cannot tell how, but in a few moments we three were engaged in a most -ardent conversation. There was an old fire-place in this house with some -blazing wood in it, and before this we sat and laughed and chattered, -while I explained just what was wanted. Their mother and father did not -even remain in the room. I could see that the younger sister was for -urging Gunda on to any gayety or flirtation, and was herself eager to -share in one. It ended by my suggesting that they both come down to -dinner with me some evening—a suggestion which they welcomed with -enthusiasm but explained that it would have to be done under the rose. -Their father was so old-fashioned that he would not allow them to take -up with any one so swiftly, would not even allow them to have any beaux -in the house. But they could meet me, and stay in town all night with -friends. Gunda laughed, and the younger sister clapped her hands for -joy. - -I made a most solemn statement of what was wanted to the parents, -secured two photographs of Gunda, and departed, having arranged to see -them the following Wednesday at seven at one of the prominent corners of -the city. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LI - - -CONCERNING these two girls and their odd, unsophisticated, daring point -of view and love of life, I have always had the most confused feelings. -They were crazy and starving for something different from what they -knew. What had become of all the staid and dull sobriety of their -parents in this queer American atmosphere? The old people had no -interest in or patience with any such restlessness. As for their two -girls, it would have been as easy to seduce one or both of them, in the -happy, seeking mood in which they met me, as to step off a car. Plainly -they liked me, both of them. My conquest was so easy that it detracted -from the charm. The weaker sex, in youth at least, has to be sought to -be worth while. I began to question whether I should proceed in this -matter as fast as they seemed to wish. - -Now that they had made friends with me, I liked them both. When we met -the following Wednesday evening, and I had taken them to a commonplace -restaurant, I was a little puzzled to know what to do with them, rarely -having a whole evening to myself. Finally I invited them to my room, -wondering if they would come. It seemed a great adventure to me, most -daring, but I could not quite make up my mind which of the two I -preferred. Just the same they came with me, looking on the proceeding as -a great and delicious adventure. As we came along Broadway in the dark -after dinner they hung on my arms, laughing and jesting at what their -parents would think, and when we went up the dimly lighted stair, an -old, wide, squeaky flight, they chortled over the fun and mystery of it -all. The room was nothing much—the same old books, hangings and other -trifles—but it seemed to please them greatly. What pleased them most was -the fact that one could go and come without attracting any attention. -They browsed about at first, and I, never having been confronted by just -this situation before and being still backward, did little or nothing -save discuss generalities. The one I had most favored (the heroine) was -more retiring than the younger, less feverish but still gay. I could -only be with them from seven to ten-thirty, but they intimated that they -would come again when they could stay as late as I chose. The suggestion -was too obvious and I lost interest. Soon I told them I had to go back -to the office and took them to a car. A few days later I took the medal -to Gunda at the store, where she received it with much pleasure, asking -where I had been and when she was to see me again. I made an appointment -for another day, which I never kept. It meant, as I reasoned it out, -that I should have to go further with her and her sister, but not being -sufficiently impelled or courageous I dropped the whole matter. Then, -because Miss W—— now seemed more significant than ever, I returned to -her with a fuller devotion than ever before. - -Owing to a driving desire to get on, to do something, to be more than I -was and have all the pleasures I craved at once, there now set in a -period of mental dissatisfaction and unrest which eventually took me out -of St. Louis and the West, and resulted in a period of stress and -distress. Sometimes I really believe that certain lives are predestined -to undergo a given group of experiences, else why the unconscionable -urge to move and be away which drives some people like the cuts of a -lash? Aside from the question of salary, there was, as I see it now, -little reason for the fierce and gnawing pains that assailed me, and -toward the last even this question of salary was not a factor; for my -employers, learning that I was about to leave, were quick enough to -offer me more money as well as definite advancement. By then, however, -my self-dissatisfaction had become so great that nothing short of a -larger salary and higher position than they could afford to give me -would have detained me. Toward the last I seemed to be obsessed by the -idea of leaving St. Louis and going East. New York—or, at least other -cities east of this one, seemed to call me far more than anything the -West had to offer. - -And now, curiously, various things seemed to combine to drive or lure me -forth, things as clear in retrospect as they were indistinguishable and -meaningless then. One of these forces, aside from that of being worthy -of my new love and lifting her to some high estate which then possessed -me, was John Maxwell who had done me such an inestimable service in -Chicago when I was trying to break into the newspaper business, and who -had now arrived on the scene with the hope of connecting with St. Louis -journalism. Fat, cynical, Cyclopean John! Was ever a more Nietzschean -mind in a more amiable body! His doctrine of ruthless progress, as I now -clearly saw, was so tall and strident, whereas his personal modus -operandi was so compellingly genial, human, sympathetic. He was forever -talking about burning, slaying, shoving people out of one’s path, doing -the best thing by oneself and the like, while at the same time actually -extending a helping hand to almost everybody and doing as little to -advantage himself personally as any man I ever knew. It was all theory, -plus an inherent desire to expound. His literary admirations were of a -turgidly sentimental or romantic character, as, for instance, Jean -Valjean of _Les Misérables_, and the good bishop; _Père Goriot_, -_Camille_, poor Smike in _Nicholas Nickleby_; and, of all things, and -yet quite like him in judgment, the various novels of Hall Caine (_The -Bondman_, _The Christian_, _The Deemster_). - -“My boy!” he used to say to me, with a fat and yet wholly impressive -vehemence that I could not help admiring whether I agreed with him or -not, “that character of Jean Valjean is one of the greatest in the -world—a masterpiece—and I’ll tell you why—” and he would then begin to -enlarge upon the moral beauty of Valjean carrying the wounded Marius -through the sewer, his taking up and caring for the poor degraded -mother, abandoned by the students of Paris, his gentle and forgiving -attitude toward all poverty and crime. - -The amusing thing about all this was, of course, that in the next breath -he would reiterate that all men were dogs and thieves, that in all cases -one had to press one’s advantage to the limit and trust nobody, that one -must burn, cut, slay, if one wished to succeed. Once I said to him, -still under the delusion that the world might well be full of -tenderness, charity, honesty and the like: “John, you don’t really -believe all that. You’re not as hard as you say.” - -“The hell I’m not! The trouble with you is that you don’t know me. -You’re just a cub yet, Theodore,” and his face wore that adorable, fat, -cynical smirk, “full of college notions of virtue and charity, and all -that guff. You think that because I helped you a little in Chicago all -men are honest, kind, and true. Well, you’ll have to stow that pretty -soon. You’re getting along now, and whatever you think other people -ought to do you’ll find it won’t be very convenient to do it -yourself—see?” And he smirked angelically once more. To me, in spite of -what he said, he seemed anything but hard or mean. - -Being in hard lines, he had come to St. Louis, not at my suggestion but -at that of Dunlap and Brady, both of whom no doubt assured him that I -could secure him a position instanter. I began to think what if anything -I could do to help him, but so overawed was I still by his personality -that I felt that nothing would do for him less than a place as -copy-reader or assistant city editor—and that was a very difficult -matter indeed, really beyond my local influence. I was too young and too -inexperienced to recommend anybody for such a place, although my Chicago -friends had come to imagine that I could do anything here. I had the -foolish notion that John would speak to me about it, but so sensitive -was he, I presume, on the subject of what was due from me to him that he -thought (I am merely guessing) that I should bestir myself without any -direct word. He had been here for days, I later learned, without even -coming near me. He had gone to a hotel, and in a few days sent word by -Dunlap, with whom he was now on the most intimate terms, that he was in -town and looking for a place. I assume now that it was but the part of -decency for me to have hurried to call on him, but so different was my -position now and so hurried was I with a number of things that I never -even thought of doing it at once. I fancied that he would come to the -office with Dunlap, or that a day or two would make no difference. At -the end of the second day after Dunlap spoke to me of his being here the -latter said: “Don’t you want to come along with me and see John?” - -I was delighted at the invitation and that same evening followed Dunlap -to John’s hotel room. It was a curious meeting, full of an odd -diffidence on my part and I know not what on his. From others he had -gathered the idea that I was successful here and therefore in a position -to be uppish, whereas I was really in a most humble and affectionate -frame of mind toward him. He met me with a most cynical, leering -expression, which by no means put me at case. He seemed at once -reproachful, antagonistic and contemptuous. - -“Well,” he began at once, “I hear you’re making a big hit down here, -Theodore. Everything’s coming your way now, eh?” - -“Oh, not so good as that, John,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve done so -wonderfully well. I hear you want to stay here; have you found anything -yet?” - -“Not a thing,” he smiled. “I haven’t been trying very hard, I guess.” - -I told him what I knew of St. Louis, how things went generally, and -offered to give him letters or personal introductions to McCullagh, a -managing editor on the _Chronicle_, to Wandell, and several others. He -thanked me, and then I invited him to come and live in my room, which he -declined at the time, taking instead a room next door to mine on the -same floor—largely because it was inexpensive and central and not, I am -sure, because it was near me. Here he stayed nearly a month, during -which time he doubtless made efforts to find something to do, which I -also did. Suddenly he was gone, and a little later, and much to my -astonishment, Dunlap informed me that he had concluded that I had been -instrumental in keeping him from obtaining work here! This he had -deduced not so much from anything he knew or had heard, but by some -amazing process of reversal; since I was much beholden to him and in a -position to assist him, I, by some perversion of nature, would resent -his coming and would do everything in my power to keep him out! - -No event in my life ever gave me a queerer sense of being misunderstood -and defeated. Of all the people I knew, I would rather have aided -Maxwell than any one else. Because I felt so sure that I could not -recommend him for anything good enough for him, I felt ashamed to try. I -did the little I could, but after a while he left without bidding me -good-by. - -But before he went there were many gatherings in his room or mine, and -always he assumed the same condescending and bantering tone toward me -that he had used in Chicago, which made me feel as though he thought my -present standing a little too good for me. And yet at times, in his more -cheerful moods, he seemed the same old John, tender, ranting, filled -with a sincere desire for the welfare of any untutored beginner, and -only so restless and irritable now because he was meshed in financial -difficulties. - -At that, he attempted to do me one more service, which, although I did -not resent it very much, I completely misunderstood. This was in regard -to Miss W——, whose photograph he now saw and whose relation to me he -gathered to be serious, although what he said related more to my whole -future than to her. One day he walked into my room and saw the picture -of my love hanging on the wall. He paused first to examine it. - -“Who’s this?” he inquired curiously. - -I can see him yet, without coat or waistcoat, suspenders down, his fat -stomach pulled in tightly by the waistband of his trousers, his fat face -pink with health, his hair tousled on his fine round head. - -“That’s the girl I’m engaged to,” I announced proudly. “I’m going to -marry her one of these days when I get on my feet.” Then, lover-like, I -began to expatiate on her charms, while he continued to study the -photograph. - -“Have you any idea how old she is?” he queried, looking up with that -queer, cynical, unbelieving look of his. - -“Oh, about my age.” - -“Oh hell!” he said roughly. “She’s older than that. She’s five or six -years older than you. What do you want to get married for anyhow? You’re -just a kid yet. Everything’s before you. You’re only now getting a -start. Now you want to go and tie yourself up so you can’t move!” - -He ambled over to the window and stared out. Then he sank comfortably -into one of my chairs, while I uttered some fine romantic bosh about -love, a home, not wanting to wander around the world all my days alone. -As I talked he contemplated me with one of those audacious smirky leers -of his, as irritating and disconcerting an expression as I have seen on -any face. - -“Oh hell, Theodore!” he remarked finally, as if to sweep away all I had -said. Then after a time he added, as if addressing the world in general: -“If there’s a bigger damn fool than a young newspaper man in or out of -love, let me know. Here you are, just twenty-one, just starting out. You -come down here from Chicago and get a little start, and the first thing -you want to do is to load yourself up with a wife, and in a year or so -two or three kids. Now I know damned well,” he went on, no doubt noting -the look of easy toleration on my part, “that what I’m going to say -won’t make you like me any better, but I’m going to say it anyhow. -You’re like all these young newspaper scouts: the moment you get a start -you think you know it all. Well, Theodore, you’ve got a long time to -live and a lot of things to learn. I had something to do with getting -you into this game, and that’s the only reason I’m talking to you now. -I’d like to see you go on and not make a mistake. In the first place -you’re too young to get married, and in the second, as I said before, -that girl is five years older than you if she’s a day. I think she’s -older,” and he went over and re-examined the picture, while I -spluttered, insisting that he was crazy, that she was no more than two -years older if so much. “Along with this,” he went on, completely -ignoring my remarks, “she’s one of these middle-West girls, all right -for life out here but no good for the newspaper game or you. I’ve been -through all that myself. Just remember, my boy, that I’m ten years older -than you. She belongs to some church, I suppose?” - -“Methodist,” I replied ruefully. - -“I knew it! But I’m not knocking her; I’m not saying that she isn’t -pretty and virtuous, but I do say that she’s older than you, and narrow. -Why, man, you don’t know your own mind yet. You don’t know where you’ll -want to go or what you’ll want to do. In ten years from now you’ll be -thirty-two, and she’ll be thirty-seven or more, believing and feeling -things that will make you tired. You’ll never agree with her—or if you -do, so much the worse for you. What she wants is a home and children and -a steady provider, and what you really want is freedom to go and do as -you please, only you don’t know it. - -“Now I’ve watched you, Theodore, and I hear what people down here say -about you, and I think you have something ahead of you if you don’t make -a fool of yourself. But if you marry now—and a conventional and narrow -woman at that, one older than you—you’re gone. She’ll cause you endless -trouble. In three or four years you’ll have children, and you’ll get a -worried, irritated point of view. Take my advice. Run with girls if you -want to, but don’t marry. Now I’ve said my say, and you can do as you -damned please.” - -He smirked genially and condescendingly once more, and I felt very much -impressed and put down. After all, I feared, in spite of my slushy mood, -that what he said was true, that it would be best for me to devote -myself solely to work and study and let women alone. But also I knew -that I couldn’t. - -The next time my beloved came to the city I decided to sound her on the -likelihood of my changing, differing. We were walking along a -leaf-strewn street, the red, brown, yellow and green leaves thick on the -brick walk, of a gray November afternoon. - -“And what would you do then?” I asked, referring to my fear of changing, -not caring for her any longer. - -She meditated for a while, kicking the leaves and staring at the ground -without looking up. Finally she surveyed me with clear appealing -blue-gray eyes. - -“But you won’t,” she said. “Let’s not think of anything like that any -more. We won’t, will we?” - -Her tone was so tender and appealing that it moved me tremendously. She -had this power over me, and retained it for years, of appealing to my -deepest emotions. I felt so sorry for her—for life—even then. It was as -if all that Maxwell had said was really true. She was different, older; -she might never understand me. But this craving for her—what to do about -that? All love, the fiercest passions, might cool and die out, but how -did that help me then? In the long future before me should I not regret -having given her up, never to have carried to fruition this delicious -fever? I thought so. - -For weeks thereafter my thoughts were colored by the truth of all John -had said. She would never give herself to me without marriage, and here -I was, lonely and financially unable to take her, and spiritually unable -to justify my marriage to her even if I were. The tangle of life, its -unfairness and indifference to the moods and longings of any individual, -swept over me once more, weighing me down far beyond the power of -expression. I felt like one condemned to carry a cross, and very -unwilling and unhappy in doing it. The delirious painful meetings went -on and on. I suffered untold tortures from my desires and my dreams. And -they were destined never to be fulfilled.... Glorious fruit that hangs -upon the vine too long, and then decays! - -Another thing that happened at this time and made a great impression, -tending more firmly than even Maxwell’s remarks to alter my point of -view and make me feel that I must leave St. Louis and go on, was the -arrival in the city of my brother Paul, who, as the star of a claptrap -melodrama entitled “The Danger Signal,” now put in an appearance. He was -one of my four brothers now out in the world making their own way and of -them all by far the most successful. I had not seen him since my -newspaper days in Chicago two years before. He was then in another play, -“The Tin Soldier,” by the reigning farceur, Hoyt. _His_ had not been the -leading rôle at that time, but somehow his skill as a comedian had -pushed him into that rôle. Previously he had leading parts in such -middle-class plays as “A Midnight Bell,” “The Two Johns” and other -things of that sort, as well as being an end man in several famous -minstrel shows. - -Now in this late November or early December, walking along South Sixth -Street in the region of the old Havlin Theater, where all the standard -melodramas of the time played, I was startled to see his face and name -staring at me from a billboard. “Ah,” I thought, “my famous brother! Now -these people will know whether our family amounts to anything or not! -Wait’ll they hear he is my brother!” - -His picture on the billboard recalled so many pleasant memories of him, -his visits home, his kindness to and intense love for my mother, how in -my tenth year he had talked of my being a writer (Heaven only knows -why), and how once on one of his visits home, when I was fourteen, he -had set me to the task of composing a humorous essay which he felt sure -I could write! Willingly and singingly I essayed it, but when I chose -the ancient topic of the mule and its tendency to kick his face fell, -and he tried to show me in the gentlest way possible how hackneyed that -was and to put me on the track of doing something original.... Now after -all this time, and scarcely knowing whether or not he knew I was here, I -was to see him once more, to make clear to him my worldly improvement. I -do not say it to boast, but I honestly think there was more joy in the -mere thought of seeing him again than there was in showing him off and -getting a little personal credit because of his success. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LII - - -AS I look back upon my life now I realize clearly that of all the -members of our family subsequent to my mother’s death, the only one who, -without quite understanding me, still sympathized with my intellectual -and artistic point of view—and that most helpfully and at times -practically—was my brother Paul. Despite the fact that all my other -brothers were much better able intellectually than he to appreciate the -kind of thing I was tending toward mentally, his was the sympathy that -buoyed me up. I do not think he understood, even in later years (long -after I had written _Sister Carrie_, for instance), what I was driving -at. His world was that of the popular song, the middle-class actor or -comedian, the middle-class comedy, and such humorous esthetes of the -writing world as Bill Nye, Petroleum V. Nasby, and the authors of the -_Spoopendyke Papers_ and _Samantha at Saratoga_. As far as I could make -out—and I say this in no lofty, condescending spirit—he was full of -simple middle-class romance, middle-class humor, middle-class -tenderness, and middle-class grossness—all of which I am very free to -say I admire. After all, we cannot all be artists, statesmen, generals, -thieves or financiers. Some of us, the large majority, have to be just -plain everyday middle-class, and a very comfortable state it is under -any decent form of government. - -But there is so very much more to be said of him, things which -persistently lift him in my memory to a height far more appealing and -important than hundreds of greater and surer fame. For my brother was a -humorist of so tender and delicate a mold that to speak of him as a mere -middle-class artist or middle-class thinker and composer, would be to do -him a gross injustice and miss the entire significance and flavor of his -being. His tenderness and sympathy, a very human appreciation of the -weakness and errors as well as the toils and tribulations of most of us, -was his most outstanding and engaging quality and gave him a very -definite force and charm. Admitting that he had an intense, possibly an -undue fondness for women (I have never been able to discover just where -the dividing line is to be drawn in such matters), a frivolous, -childish, horse-play sense of humor at times, still he had other -qualities that were positively adorable. That sunny disposition, that -vigorous, stout body and nimble mind, those smiling sweet blue eyes, -that air of gayety and well-being that was with him nearly all the time, -even at the most trying times! Life seemed to bubble in him. Hope sprang -upward like a fountain. You felt in him a capacity to do (in his limited -field), an ability to achieve, whether he was succeeding at the moment -or not. Never having the least power to interpret anything in a high -musical way, still he was always full of music of a tender, sometimes -sad, sometimes gay kind, the ballad-maker of a nation. For myself, I was -always fascinated by this skill of his, the lovable art that attempts to -interpret sorrow and pleasure in terms of song, however humble. And on -the stage, how, in a crude way, by mere smile and gesture, he could make -an audience laugh! I have seen houses crowded to the ceiling with -middle- or lower-class people, shop girls and boys, factory hands and -the like, who tittered continuously at his every move. He seemed to -radiate a kind of comforting sunshine and humor without a sharp edge or -sting (satire was entirely beyond him), a kind of wilding asininity, -your true clown in cap and bells, which caused even my morbid soul to -chortle by the hour. Already he was a composer of a certain type of -melodramatic and tearful yet land-sweeping songs (_The Letter That Never -Came_, _The Pardon Came Too Late_, _I Believe It for My Mother Told Me -So_, _The Bowery_). (Let those who wish to know him better read of him -in _Twelve Men: My Brother Paul_.) - -Well, this was my brother Paul, the same whom I have described as stout, -gross, sensual, and all of these qualities went hand-in-hand. I have no -time here for more than the briefest glimpse, the faintest echo. I -should like to write a book about him—the wonderful, the tender! But now -he was coming to St. Louis, and in my youthful, vainglorious way I was -determined to show him what I was. He should be introduced to Peter, -Dick and Rodenberger, my cronies. I would have a feast in my room after -the theater in his honor. I would give another, a supper at Faust’s, -then the leading restaurant of St. Louis, of a gay Bohemian character, -and invite Wandell, Dunlap, my managing editor (I can never think of his -name), Bassford, the dramatic editor, and Peter, Dick and Rodenberger. I -proposed to bring my love to his theater some afternoon or evening and -introduce him to her. - -I hurried to the office of the _Globe_ to find Dick and Peter and tell -them my news and plans. They were very much for whatever it was I wanted -to do, and eager to meet Paul of course. Also, within the next -twenty-four hours I had written to Miss W——, and told Wandell, Bassford, -the managing editor and nearly everybody else. I dropped in at Faust’s -to get an estimate on the kind of dinner I thought he would like, having -the head-waiter plan it for me, and then eagerly awaited his arrival. - -Sunday morning came, and I called at the theater at about eleven, and -found him on the stage of this old theater entirely surrounded by trunks -and scenery. There was with him at the moment a very petite actress, the -female star of the company, who, as I later learned, was one of his -passing flames. He was stout as ever, and dressed in the most engaging -Broadway fashion: a suit of good cloth and smart cut, a fur coat, a high -hat and a gold-headed cane—in short, all the earmarks of prosperity and -comfort. What a wonderful thing he and this stage world, even this world -of claptrap melodrama, seemed to me at the time. I felt on the instant -somehow as though I were better established in the world than I thought, -to be thus connected with one who traveled all over the country. The -whole world seemed to come closer because of him. - -“Hello!” he called, plainly astonished. “Where’d you come from?” and -then seeing that I was better dressed and poised mentally than he had -ever known me, he looked me over in an odd, slightly doubting way, as a -stranger might, and then introduced me to his friend. Seeing him -apparently pleased by my arrival and eager to talk with me, she quickly -excused herself, saying she had to go on to her hotel; then he fell to -asking me questions as to how I came to be here, how I was getting -along. I am sure he was slightly puzzled and possibly disturbed by my -sharp change from a shy, retiring boy to one who examined him with the -chill and weighing eye of the newspaper man. To me, all of a sudden, he -was not merely one whom I had to like because he was my brother or one -who knew more about life than I—rather less, I now thought, quickly -gathering his intellectual import, but because of his character solely. -I might like or dislike that as I chose. He reminded me now a great deal -of my mother, and I could not help recalling how loving and generous he -had always been with her. Instantly he appealed to me as the simple, -home-loving mother-boy that he was. It brought him so close to me that I -was definitely and tenderly drawn to him. I could feel how fine and -generous he really was. Even then although I doubt very much whether he -liked me at first, finding me so brash and self-sufficient, still, so -simple and communistic were the laws by which his charming mind worked, -he at once accepted me as a part of the family and so of himself, a -brother, one of mother’s boys. How often have I heard him say in regard -to some immediate relative concerning whom an acrimonious debate might -be going forward, “After all, he’s your brother, isn’t he?” or “She’s -your sister,” as though mere consanguinity should dissolve all -dissatisfactions and rages! Isn’t there something humanly sweet about -that, in the face of all the cold, decisive conclusions of this world? - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LIII - - -WELL, such was my brother Paul and now he was here. Never before was he -so much my dear brother as now. So generally admirable was he that I -should have liked him quite as much had he been no relative. After a few -moments of explanation as to my present state I offered to share my room -with him for the period of his stay, but he declined. Then I offered to -take him to lunch, but he was too hurried or engaged. He agreed to come -to my room after the show, however, and offered me a box for myself and -my new friends. So much faith did I have in the good sense of Peter, -Dick and Rodenberger, their certainty of appreciating the charm of a man -like Paul, that I brought them to the theater this same night, although -I knew the show itself must be a mess. There was a scenic engine in this -show, with a heroine lying across the rails! My dear brother was a comic -switchman or engineer in this act, evoking roars of low-brow laughter by -his antics and jokes. - -I shall never forget how my three friends took all this. Now that he was -actually here they were good enough to take him into their affectionate -consideration on my account, almost as though he belonged to them. He -was “Dreiser’s brother Paul,” even “Dear old Paul” afterwards. Because -working conditions favored us that night we all three descended on the -Havlin together, sitting in the box while the show was in progress but -spending all the intermissions in Paul’s dressingroom or on the back of -the stage. Having overcome his first surprise and possibly dislike of my -brash newspaper manner, he was now all smiles and plainly delighted with -my friends, Rodenberger and Peter, especially the latter, appealing to -him as characters not unlike himself, individuals whom he could -understand. And in later years, when I was in New York, he was always -asking after them and singing their praises. Dick also came in for a -share of his warm affection, but in a slower way. He thought Dick -amusing but queer, like a strange animal of some kind. On subsequent -tours which took him to St. Louis he was always in touch with these -three. Above all things, the waggish grotesqueries of McCord’s mind -moved him immensely. Peter’s incisive personality and daring -unconventionality seemed to fascinate Paul. “Wonderful boy, that,” he -used to say to me, almost as though he were confiding a deep secret. -“You’ll hear from him yet, mark my word. You can’t lose a kid like -that.” And time proved quite plainly that he was right. - -During the play Paul sang one of his own compositions, _The Bowery_. It -was an exceptional comic song, quite destructive of the good name of the -Bowery forever, so much so that ten years later the merchants and -property owners of that famous thoroughfare petitioned to have the name -of the street changed, on the ground that the jibes involved in the song -had destroyed its character as an honest business street forever. So -much for the import of a silly ballad, and the passing song—writer. What -are the really powerful things in this world anyhow? - -After the show we all adjourned to some scowsy music hall in the -vicinity of this old theater, which Dick insisted by reason of its very -wretchedness would amuse Paul, although I am sure it did not (he was -never a satirist). And thence to my room, where I had the man who -provided the midnight lunch for the workers at the _Globe_ spread a -small feast. I had no piano, but Paul sang, and Peter gave an imitation -of a street player who could manipulate at one and the same time a drum, -mouth-organ and accordion. We had to beat my good brother on the back to -keep him from choking. - -But it was during a week of breakfasts together that the first -impressive conversations in regard to New York occurred, conversations -that finally imbued me with the feeling that I should never be quite -satisfied until I had reached there. Whether this was due to the fact -that I now told him about my present state and ambitions or dreams and -my somewhat remarkable success here, or that he was now coming to the -place where he was able to suggest ways and means and at the same time -indulge the somewhat paternalistic streak in himself, I do not know, but -during the week he persisted in the most florid descriptions of New York -and my duty to go there, its import to me intellectually and otherwise; -and finally he convinced me that I should never reach my true -intellectual stature unless I did. Other places might be very good, he -insisted, they all had their value, but there was only one place where -one might live in a keen and vigorous way, and that was New York. It was -_the_ city, the only cosmopolitan city, a wonder-world in itself. It was -great, wonderful, marvelous, the size, the color, the tang, the beauty. - -He went on to explain that the West was narrow, slow, not really alive. -In New York one might always do, think and act more freely than anywhere -else. The air itself was tonic. All really ambitious people, people who -were destined to do or be anything, eventually drifted there—editors, -newspaper men, actors, playwrights, song-writers, musicians, -money-makers. He pointed to himself as a case in point, how he had -ventured there, a gawky stripling doing a monologue, and how one Harry -Minor, now of antique “Bowery Theater” fame, had seized on him, carried -him along and forwarded him in every way. Some one was certain to do as -much for me, for any one of ability. In passing, he now confided that -only recently, from having been the star song-writer for a well-known -New York music publisher (Willis Woodward), he had succeeded, with two -other men, in organizing a music publishing company in which he had a -third interest, and which was to publish his songs as well as those of -others and was pledged to pay him an honest royalty (a thing which he -insisted had not so far been done) as well as a full share as partner. -In addition, under the friendly urging of an ambitious manager, he was -now writing a play, to be known as “The Green Goods Man,” in which -within a year or two he would appear as star. Also he reminded me that -our sister E——, who had long since moved to New York (as early as 1885), -was now living in West Fifteenth Street, where she would be glad to -receive me. He was always in New York in the summer, living with this -sister. “Why not come down there next summer when I am there off the -road, and look it over?” - -As he talked, New York came nearer than ever it had before, and I could -see the light of conviction and enthusiasm in his eye. It was plain, now -that he had seen me again, that he wanted me to succeed. My friends had -already sung my praises to him, although he himself could see that I was -fast emerging from my too shy youth. St. Louis might be well enough, and -Chicago—but New York! New York! One who had not seen it but who was -eager to see the world could not help but sniff and prick up his ears. - -It was during this week that I gave the supper previously mentioned, and -took my fiancée to meet my brother. I am satisfied that she liked him, -or was rather amused by him, not understanding the least detail of his -life or the character of the stage, while the sole comment that I could -get out of him was that she was charming but that if he were in my place -he would not think of marrying yet—a statement which had more light -thrown on it years later by his persistent indifference to if not -dislike of her, although he was always too courteous and mindful of -others to express himself openly to me.... All of which is neither here -nor there. - -My glorious supper turned out to be somewhat of a failure. Without -knowing it, I was trying to harmonize elements which would not mix, at -least not on such a short notice. The true Bohemianism and at the same -time exclusive camaraderie of such youths as Peter, Dick and -Rodenberger, and the rather stilted intellectual sufficiency of my -editorial friends and superiors of the _Republic_, and the utter -innocence and naïveté of Paul himself, proved too much. The dinner was -stilted, formal, boring. My dear brother was as barren of intellectual -interests as a child. No current problem such as might have interested -these editorial men had the smallest interest for him or had ever been -weighed by him. He could not discuss them, although I fancy if we had -turned to prize-fighters or baseball heroes or comic characters in -general he would have done well enough. Indeed his and their thoughts -were so far apart that they found him all but dull. On the other hand, -Peter, Dick and Rodenberger finding Paul delightful were not in the -least interested in the others, looking upon them as executives and of -no great import. Between these groups I was lost, not knowing how to -harmonize them. Struck all at once by the ridiculousness and futility of -my attempt, I could not talk gayly or naturally, and the more I tried to -bring things round the worse they became. Finally I was on pins and -needles, until the whole thing was saved by Wandell remembering early -that he had something to do at the office. Seizing their opportunity, -the managing editor and the dramatic editor went with him. The others -and I now attempted to rally, but it was too late. A half-hour later we -broke up, and I accompanied my brother to his hotel door. He made none -but pleasant comments, but it was all such a fizzle that I could have -wept. - -By Sunday morning he was gone again, and then my life settled into its -old routine, apparently—only it did not. Now more than ever I felt -myself to be a flitting figure in this interesting but humdrum local -world, comfortable enough perhaps but with no significant future for me. -The idea of New York as a great and glowing center had taken root. - -Some other things tended to move me from St. Louis. Only recently -Michaelson, who had come to St. Louis to obtain my aid in securing a -place, had been harping on the advantage of being a country editor, the -ease of the life, its security. He was out of work and eager to leave -the city. I think he was convinced that I was financially in a position -to buy a half interest in some fairly successful country paper (which I -was not), while he took the other half interest on time. Anyway I had -been thinking of this as a way of getting out of the horrible grind of -newspaperdom; only this mood of my brother seemed to reach down to the -very depths of my being, depths hitherto not plumbed by anything, and -put New York before me as a kind of ultimate certainty. I must go there -at some time or other! meanwhile it might be a good thing for me to run -a country paper. It might make me some money, give me station and -confidence.... - -At the same time, in the face of my growing estimate of myself, backed -by the plaudits of such men as Peter and Dick (who were receiving twice -my salary), to say nothing of the assurance of my brother that I had -that mysterious thing, personality, I was always cramped for cash, and -there was no sign on the part of my employers that I would ever be worth -very much more to them. Toward the very last, as I have said, they -changed, but then it was too late. I might write and write, page -specials every week, assignments of all kinds, theatrical and sport -reviews at times—and still, after all the evidence that I could be of -exceptional service to them, twenty-two or -three dollars was all I -could get. And dogging my heels was Michaelson, a cheerful, comforting -soul in the main, but a burden. It has always been a matter of great -interest to me to observe how certain types, parasites, barnacles, -decide that they are to be aided or strengthened by another, and without -a “by-your-leave” or any other form or courtesy to “edge in,” bring -their trunk, and make themselves at home. Although I never really liked -Michaelson very much, here he was, idling about, worrying about a job or -his future, living in my room toward the last, eating his meals (at -least his breakfasts) with me, and talking about the country, the charm, -ease and profit of editing a country newspaper! - -Now, of all the people in this dusty world, I can imagine no one less -fitted than myself, temperamentally or in any other way, to edit a -country paper. The intellectual limitations of such a world! My own -errant disposition and ideas, my contempt for and revolt against the -standardized and clock-work motions and notions of the average man and -woman! In six months I should have been arrested or drummed out by the -preacher, the elders, and all the other worthies for miles around. Let -sleeping dogs lie. The louder all conventionalists snore the better—for -me anyhow. - -But here I was listening to Michaelson’s silly drivel and wondering if a -country newspaper might not offer an escape from the humdrum and -clamlike existence into which I seemed to have fallen. From December on -this cheerful mediocrity, of about the warmth and intelligence of a -bright collie, was telling me daily how wonderful I was and that I -“ought to get out of here and into something which would really profit -me and get me somewhere”—into the editorship of a country weekly! - -What jocular fates trifled with my sense of the reasonable or the -ridiculous at this time I do not know, but I was interested—largely, I -presume, because I was too wandering and nebulous to think of anything -else to do. This cheerful soul finally ended by indicating a paper—the -Weekly Something of Grand Rapids, Ohio (not Michigan), near his father’s -farm (see pp. 247-255, _A Hoosier Holiday_), which, according to him, -was just the thing and should offer a complete solution for all our -material and social aspirations in this world. By way of this paper, or -some other of its kind, one might rise to any height, political or -social, state or national. I might become a state assemblyman from my -county, a senator, a congressman, or United States senator! When you -owned a country paper you were an independent person (imagine the editor -of a country paper being independent of the conventions of his -community!), not a poor harried scribe on a city paper, uncertain from -week to week whether you were to be retained any longer. There were the -delights of a country life, the sweet simplicity of a country town, away -from the noise and streets and gaudy, shabby nothingness of a great -city. ... As I listened to the picture of his native town, his father’s -farm, the cows, pigs, chickens, how we could go there and live for a -while, my imagination mounted to a heaven of unadulterated success, -peace, joy. In my mind I had already rented or bought a small vine-clad -cottage in Grand Rapids, Ohio, where, according to Michaelson, was a -wonderful sparkling rapids to be seen glimmering in the moonlight, a -railroad which went into Toledo within an hour, fertile farmland all -about, both gas and oil recently struck, making the farmers prosperous -and therefore in the mood for a first-class newspaper such as we would -edit. Imagine sparkling rapids glimmering in the moonlight listed as a -financial asset of a country paper! - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LIV - - -MY thoughts being now turned, if vaguely, to the idea of rural life and -editing a country newspaper, although I really did not believe that I -could succeed at that, I talked and talked, to Michaelson, to my future -wife, to Dick and Peter, in a roundabout, hinting way, developing all -sorts of theories as to the possible future that awaited me. To buoy up -my faith in myself, I tried to make Miss W—— feel that I was a personage -and would do great things.... How nature would ever get on without total -blindness, or at least immense credulity on the part of its creatures, I -cannot guess. Certainly if women in their love period had any more sense -than the men they would not be impressed with the boshy dreams of such -swains as myself. Either they cannot help themselves or they must want -to believe. Nature must want them to believe. How the woman who married -me could have been impressed by my faith in myself at this period is -beyond my reasoning, and yet she was impressed, or saw nothing better in -store for her than myself. - -That she was so impressed, and that I, moved by her affection for me or -my own desire to possess her, was impelled to do something to better my -condition, was obvious. Hints thrown out at the _Republic_ office, to my -sponsor Wandell in particular, that I might leave producing nothing, I -decided sometime during January and February, 1893, to take up -Michaelson’s proposition, although I did not see how, other than by -gross luck, it could come to anything. Neither of us had any money to -speak of, and yet we were planning to buy a country newspaper. For a few -days before starting we debated this foolish matter and then I sent him -to his home town to look over the field there and report, which he -immediately did, writing most glowing accounts of an absolutely -worthless country paper there, which he was positive we could secure for -a song and turn into a paying proposition at once. I cannot say that I -believed this, and yet I went because I felt the need of something -different. And all the time the tug of that immense physical desire -toward my beloved which, were there any such thing as sanity in life, -might have been satisfied without any great blow to society, was holding -me as by hooks of steel. It was this conflict between the need to go and -the wish to stay that tortured me. Yet I went. I had the pain of -separating from her in this mood, realizing that youth was slipping -away, that in the uncertainty of all things there might never be a happy -fruition to our love (and there was not). And yet I went. - -I bade her a final farewell the Sunday night before my departure. I -hinted at all sorts of glorious achievements as well as all possible -forms of failure. Lover-wise, I was tremendously impressed with the -sterling worth and connections of this girl, the homely, conventional -and prosaic surroundings. My unfitness for fulfilling her dreams -tortured me. As I could plainly see, she was for life as it had been -lived by billions, by those who interpret it as a matter of duty, -simplicity, care and thrift. I think she saw before her a modest home in -which would be children, enough money to clothe them decently, enough -money to entertain a few friends, and eventually to die and be buried -respectably. On the other hand, I was little more than a pulsing force, -with no convictions, no definite theories or plans. In my sky the latest -cloud of thought or plan was the great thing. Not I but destiny, over -which I had no control, had me in hand. I felt, or thought I felt, the -greatest love ... while within me was a voice which said: “What a liar! -What a pretender! You will satisfy yourself, make your own way as best -you can. Each new day will be a clean slate for you, no least picture of -the past thereon—none, at least, which might not be quickly wiped away. -Any beautiful woman would satisfy you.” Still I suffered torture for her -and myself, and left the next day, lacerated by the postponement, the -defeated desire for happiness in love. - -My attitude on leaving the _Republic_ was one of complete indifference, -coupled with a kind of satisfaction at the last moment that, after -having seemed previously totally indifferent to my worth, the city -editor, the managing editor, and even the publisher, seemed suddenly to -feel that if I could be induced to stay I might prove of greater value -to them than thus far I had—from a cash point of view. And so they made -a hearty if belated effort to detain me. Indeed on my very sudden -announcement only a few days before my departure that I was going, my -city editor expressed great regret, asked me not to act hastily, told me -he proposed to speak to the editor-in-chief. But this did not interest -me any more. I was down on the _Republic_ for the way it had treated me. -Why hadn’t they done something for me months ago? That afternoon as I -was leaving the building on an assignment, the managing editor caught me -and wanted to know of my plans, said if I would stay he believed that -soon a better place in the editorial department could be made for me. -Having already written Michaelson that I would soon join him, however, I -now felt it impossible not to leave. The truth is I really wanted to go -and now that I had brought myself to this point, I did not want to -retreat. Besides, there was a satisfaction in refusing these belated -courtesies. The editor said that if I were really going the publisher -would be glad to give me a general letter of introduction which might -stand me in good stead in other cities. True enough, on the Monday on -which I left, having gone to the office to say farewell, I was met by -the publisher, who handed me a letter of introduction. It was of the “To -whom it might concern” variety and related my labors and capacities in -no vague words. I might have used this letter to advantage in many a -strait, but never did. Rather, by some queer inversion of thought, I -concluded that it was somewhat above my capacity, said more for me than -I deserved, and might secure for me some place which I could not fill. -For over a year I carried it about in my pocket, often when I was -without a job and with only a few dollars in my pockets, and still I did -not use it. Why, I have often wondered since. Little as I should -understand such a thing in another, so little do I now understand this -in myself. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LV - - -THAT evening at seven I carried my bags down to the great Union Station, -feeling that I was a failure. Other men had money; they need not thus go -jerking about the world seeking a career. So many youths and maids had -all that was needful to their case and comfort arranged from the -beginning. They did not need to fret about the making of a bare living. -The ugly favoritism of life which piles comforts in the laps of some -while snatching the smallest crumb of satisfaction from the lips of -others was never more apparent to me. I was in a black despair, and made -short work of getting into my berth. For a long time I stared at dark -fields flashing by, punctuated by lamps in scattered cottages, the -gloomy and lonely little towns of Illinois and Indiana. Then I slept. - -I was aroused by a ray of sunshine in my eyes. I lifted one of my blinds -and saw the cornfields of Northern Ohio, the brown stumps of last year’s -crop protruding through the snow. Commonplace little towns, the small -brown or red railway stations with the adjoining cattle-runs, and tall -gas-well derricks protruding out of dirty, snowless soil, made me -realize that I was approaching the end of my journey. I found that I had -ample time to shave, dress and breakfast in the adjoining buffet—a thing -I proposed to do if it proved the last pretentious, liberal, courageous -deed of my life. - -For I was not too well provided with cash, and was I not leaving -civilization? Though I had but a hundred dollars, might not my state -soon be much worse? I have often smiled since over the awe in which I -then held the Pullman car, its porter, conductor, and all that went with -it. To my inexperienced soul it seemed to be the acme of elegance and -grandeur. Could life offer anything more than the privilege of riding -about the world in these mobile palaces? And here was I this sunny -winter morning with enough money to indulge in a breakfast in one of -these grand ambling chambers, though if I kept up this reckless pace -there was no telling where I should end. - -I selected a table adjoining one at which sat two drummers who talked of -journeys far and wide, of large sales of binders and reapers and the -condition of trade. They seemed to me to be among the most fortunate of -men, high up in the world as positions go, able to steer straight and -profitable courses for themselves. Because they had half a broiled -spring chicken, I had one, and coffee and rolls and French fried -potatoes, as did they, feeling all the while that I was indulging in -limitless grandeur. At one station at which the train stopped some -poor-looking farmer boys in jeans and “galluses” and wrinkled hats -looking up at me with interest as I ate, I stared down at them, hoping -that I should be taken for a millionaire to whom this was little more -than a wearisome commonplace. I felt fully capable of playing the part -and so gave the boys a cold and repressive glance, as much as to say, -Behold! I assured myself that the way to establish my true worth was to -make every one else feel small by comparison. - -The town of Grand Rapids lay in the extreme northwestern portion of Ohio -on the Maumee, a little stream which begins somewhere west of Fort -Wayne, Indiana, and runs northeast to Toledo, emptying into Lake Erie. -The town was traversed by this one railroad, which began at St. Louis -and ended at Toledo, and consisted of a number of small frame houses and -stores, with a few brick structures of one and two stories. I had not -arranged with Michaelson that he should meet me at any given time, -having been uncertain as to the time of my departure from St. Louis, and -so I had to look him up. As I stepped down at the little depot. I noted -the small houses with snow-covered yards, the bare trees and the glimpse -of rolling country which I caught through the open spaces between. There -was the river, wide and shallow, flowing directly through the heart of -the town and tumbling rapidly and picturesquely over gray stones. I was -far more concerned as to whether I should sometime be able to write a -poem or a story about this river than I was to know if a local weekly -could subsist here. And after the hurry and bustle of St. Louis, the -town did not impress me. I felt now that I had made a dreadful mistake -and wondered why I had been so foolish as to give up the opportunities -suggested by my friends on the _Republic_, and my sweetheart, when I -might have remained and married her under the new editorial conditions -proffered me. - -Yet I walked on to the main corner and inquired where my friend lived, -then out a country road indicated to me as leading toward his home. I -found an old rambling frame house, facing the Maumee River, with a -lean-to and kitchen and springhouse, corncribs, a barn twice the size of -the house, and smaller buildings, all resting comfortably on a rise of -ground. Apple and pear trees surrounded it, now leafless in the wind. A -curl of smoke rose from the lean-to and told me where the cookstove was. -As I entered the front gate I felt the joy of a country home. It told of -simple and plain things, food, warmth, comfort, minds content with -routine. Michaelson appeared at the door and greeted me most -enthusiastically. He introduced me to his family with the exuberant -youthfulness of a schoolboy. - -I met the father, a little old dried-up quizzical man, who looked at me -over his glasses in a wondering way and rubbed his mouth with the back -of his hand. I met the mother, small, wizened, middle-aged, looking as -though she had gone through a thousand worries. Then I met Michaelson’s -wife, a dark, chubby, brown-skinned woman, stocky and not -over-intelligent. They asked me to make myself at home, listened to an -account of my experiences in getting there, and then Michaelson -volunteered to show me about the place. - -My mind revolted at the thought of such a humdrum life as this for -myself, though I was constantly touched by its charm—for others. I -followed the elder Mrs. Michaelson into the lean-to and watched her -cook, went with Michaelson to the barn to look over the live stock and -returned to talk with Michaelson senior about the prospects of the -Republican party in Ohio. He was much interested in a man named -McKinley, a politician of Ohio, who had been a congressman for years and -who was now being talked of as the next candidate of the Republican -party for the Presidency. I had scarcely heard of him up to that time, -but I gave my host my opinion, such as it was. We sat about the big drum -sheet-iron stove, heated by natural gas, then but newly discovered and -piped in that region. After dinner I proposed to my friend that we go -into the village and inspect the printing plant which he had said was -for sale. We walked along the road discussing the possibilities, and it -seemed to me as we walked that he was not as enthusiastic as he had been -in St. Louis. - -“I’ve been looking at this fellow’s plant,” he said vaguely, “and I -don’t know whether I want to give him two hundred down for it. He hasn’t -got anything. That old press he has is in pretty bad shape, and his type -is all worn down.” - -“Can we get it for two hundred?” I asked innocently. - -“Sure, two hundred down. I wouldn’t think of giving him more. All he -wants now is enough to get out of here, some one to take it off his -hands. He can’t run it.” - -We went to the office of the _Herald_, a long dark loft over a feed -store, and found there a press and some stands of type, and a table -before the two front windows, which looked west. The place was unlighted -except by these windows and two in the back, and contained no provision -for artificial light except two or three tin kerosene lamps. Slazey, the -youthful editor, was not in. We walked about and examined the contents -of the room, all run down. The town was small and slow, and even an -idealist could see that there was small room here for a career. - -Presently the proprietor returned, and I saw a sad specimen of the -country editor of those days: sleepy, sickly-looking, with a spare, -gaunt face and a head which had the appearance of an egg with the point -turned to the back. His hair was long and straight and thin, the back -part of it growing down over his dusty coat-collar. He wore a pair of -baggy trousers of no shape or distinguishable color, and his coat and -waistcoat were greasy. He extended a damp, indifferent hand to me. - -“I hear you want to sell out,” I said. - -“Yes, I’m willing to sell,” he replied sadly. - -“Do you mind showing us what you have here?” - -He went about mechanically, and pointed out the press and type and some -paper he had on hand. - -“Let me see that list of subscribers you showed me the other day,” said -Michaelson, who now seemed eager to convince himself that there might be -something in this affair. - -Slazey brought it out from an old drawer and together we examined it, -spreading it out on the dusty table and looking at the names checked off -as paid. There were not more than a thousand. Some of them had another -mark beside the check, and this excited my curiosity. - -“What’s this cross here for?” - -“That’s the one that’s paid for this year.” - -“Isn’t this this year’s list?” - -“No. I just thought I’d check up the new payments on the old list. I -haven’t had time to make out a new one.” - -Our faces fell. The names checked with a cross did not aggregate five -hundred. - -“I’ll tell you what we’d better do,” observed Michaelson heavily, -probably feeling that I had become suddenly depressed. “Suppose we go -around and see some of the merchants and ask them if they’ll support us -with advertising?” - -I agreed, feeling all the while that the whole venture was ridiculous, -and together we went about among the silent stores, talking with -conservative men, who represented all that was discouraging and -wearisome in life. Here they stood all day long calculating in pennies -and dimes, whereas the city merchant counted in hundreds and thousands. -It was dispiriting. Think of living in a place like this, among such -people! - -“I might give a good paper my support,” said one, a long, lean, -sanctimonious man who looked as though he had narrow notions and a firm -determination to rule in his small world. “But it’s mighty hard to make -a paper that would suit this community. We’re religious and hard-working -here, and we like the things that interest religious and hard-working -people. Course if it was run right it might pay pretty well, but I dunno -as ’twould neither. You never can tell.” - -I saw that he would be one hard customer to deal with anyhow. If there -were many like him—— The poor, thin-blooded, calculating world which he -represented frightened me. - -“How much advertising do you think you could give to a paper that was -‘run’ right?” - -“Well, that depends,” he said gloomily and disinterestedly. “I’d have to -see how it was run first. Some weeks I might give more than others.” - -Michaelson nudged me and we left. - -“I forgot to tell you,” he said, “that he’s a Baptist and a Republican. -He’d expect you to run it in favor of those institutions if you got his -support. But all the men around town won’t feel that way.” - -In the dusty back room of a drugstore we found a chemist who did not -know whether a weekly newspaper was of any value to him, and could not -contribute more than fifty cents a week in advertising if it were. The -proprietor of the village hotel, a thick-set, red-faced man with the air -of a country evil-doer, said that he did not see that a local newspaper -was particularly valuable to him. He might advertise, but it would be -more as a favor than anything else. - -I began to sum up the difficulties of our position. We should be -handicapped, to begin with, by a wretched printing outfit. We should be -beholden to a company of small, lean-living, narrow men who would take -offense at the least show of individuality and cut us off entirely from -support. We should have to busy ourselves gathering trivial items of -news, dunning hard-working, indifferent farmers for small amounts of -money, and reduce all our thoughts and ambitions to the measure of this -narrow world. I saw myself dying by inches. It gave me the creeps. Youth -and hope were calling. - -“I don’t see this,” I said to myself. “It’s horrible. I should die.” To -Michaelson I said: “Suppose we give up our canvassing for today?” - -“We might as well,” he replied. “There’s a paper over at Bowling Green -for sale, and it’s a better paper. We might go over in a day or two and -look at it. We might as well go home now.” - -I agreed, and we turned down a street that led to the road, meditating. -I knew nothing of my destiny, but I knew that it had little to do with -this. These great wide fields, many of them already sown to wheat under -the snow, these hundreds of oil or gas-well derricks promising a new -source of profit to many, the cleanly farmhouses and neatly divided -farms all appealed to me, but this world was not for me. I was thinking -of something different, richer, more poignant, less worthy possibly, -more terrible, more fruitful for the moods and the emotions. What could -these bleak fields offer? I thought of St. Louis, the crowded streets, -the vital offices of the great papers, their thrashing presses, the -hotels, the theaters, the trains. What, bury myself here? I thought of -the East—New York possibly, at least Cleveland, Buffalo, Pittsburgh, -Philadelphia. - -“I like the country, but it’s a hard place to make a living, isn’t it?” -I finally said. - -“Yes,” he assented gloomily. “I’ve never been able to get anything out -of it—but I haven’t done very well in the city either.” - -I sensed the mood of an easily defeated man. - -“I’m so used to the noise and bustle of the streets that these fields -seem lonely,” I said. - -“Yes, but you might get over that in time, don’t you think?” - -Never, I thought, but did not say so; instead I said: “That’s a -beautiful sky, isn’t it?” and he looked blankly to where a touch of -purple was creeping into the background of red and gold. - -We reached the house at dusk. Going through the gate I said: “I don’t -see how I can go into this with you, Mich. There isn’t enough in it.” - -“Well, don’t worry about it any more tonight. I’d rather the girl -wouldn’t know. We’ll talk it over in the morning.” - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LVI - - -DISHEARTENING as this village and country life might seem as a permanent -field of endeavor, it was pleasing enough as a spectacle or as the scene -of a vacation. Although it was late February when I came and there was -snow on the ground, a warm wind came in a day or two and drove most of -it away. A full moon rose every night in the east and there was a sense -of approaching Spring. Before the charming old farmhouse flowed the -wonderful little Maumee River, dimpling over stones and spreading out -wide, as though it wished to appear much more than it was. There is -madness in moonlight, and there is madness in that chemical compound -which is youth. Here in this simple farming region, once free of the -thought that by any chance I might be compelled to remain here, I felt -strangely renewed and free as a bird, though at the same time there was -an undercurrent of sadness, not only for myself but for life itself, the -lapse and decay of things, the impossibility of tasting or knowing more -than a fraction of the glories and pleasures that are everywhere -outspread. Although I had not had a vacation in years, I was eager to be -at work. The greatness of life, its possibilities, the astounding dreams -of supremacy which might come true, were calling to me. I wanted to be -on, to find what life had in store for me; and yet I wanted to stay here -for a while. - -Mich’s father, as well as his mother and wife, interested me intensely, -for they were simple, industrious, believing. They were good Baptists or -Methodists or Presbyterians. The grizzled little old farmer who had -built up this place or inherited a part and added the rest, was exactly -like all the other farmers I have ever known: genial, kindly, fairly -tolerant, curious as to the wonders of the world without, full of a -great faith in America and its destiny, sure that it is the greatest -country in the world, and that there has never been one other like it. -That first night at supper, and the next morning at breakfast, and all -my other days here, the old man questioned me as to life, its ways, my -beliefs or theories, and I am positive that he was delighted to have me -there, for it was winter and he had little to do besides read his paper. - -The newspaper of largest circulation in this region was the _Blade_ of -Toledo, which he read assiduously. The mother and daughter-in-law did -most of the work. The mother was forever busy cooking breakfast or -dinner, cleaning the rooms, milking, making butter and cheese, gathering -eggs from a nearby hennery. Her large cellar was stocked with jellies, -preserved fruit, apples, potatoes and other vegetables. There was an -ample store of bacon, salt pork and beef. I found that no fresh meat -other than chicken was served, but the meals were delightful and -plentiful, delicious biscuits and jelly, fresh butter, eggs, ham, bacon, -salt pork or cured beef, and the rarely absent fried chicken, as well as -some rabbits which Mich shot. During my stay he did nothing but idle -about the barn, practicing on a cornet which he said had saved his lungs -at a time when he was threatened with consumption. But his playing! I -wonder the cure did not prove fatal. I noted the intense interest of -Mich’s father in what the discovery of gas in this region would do for -it. He was almost certain that all small towns hereabout would now -become prosperous manufacturing centers. There would be work for all. -Wages would go up. Many people would soon come here and become rich. -This of course never came true at all. The flow of natural gas soon gave -out and the oil strikes were not even rivals of some nearby fields. - -All this talk was alien to my thoughts. I could not fix my interest on -trade and what it held in store for anybody. I knew it must be so and -that America was destined to grow materially, but somehow the thing did -not interest me. My thoughts leaped to the artistic spectacle such -material prosperity might subsequently present, not to the purely -material phase of the prosperity itself. Indeed I could never think of -the work being done in any factory or institution without passing from -that work to the lives behind it, the crowds of commonplace workers, the -great streets which they filled, the bare homes, and the separate and -distinct dramas of their individual lives. I was tremendously interested -by the rise of various captains of industry then already bestriding -America, their opportunities and pleasures, the ease and skill with -which they organized “trusts” and combinations, their manipulations of -the great railroads, oil and coal fields, their control of the telegraph -and the telephone, their sharp and watchful domination of American -politics; but only as drama. Grover Cleveland was President, and his -every deed was paining the Republicans quite as much as it was -gratifying the Democrats, but I could already see that the lot of the -underdog varied little with the much-heralded changes of -administration—and it was the underdog that always interested me more -than the upper one, his needs, his woes, his simplicities. Here, as -elsewhere, I could see by talking to Mich and his father, men became -vastly excited, paraded and all but wept over the results of one -election or another, city, State or national, but when all was said and -done and America had been “saved,” or the Constitution “defended” or -“wrecked,” the condition of the average man, myself included, was about -as it had been before. - -The few days I spent here represented an interlude between an old and a -new life. I have always felt that in leaving St. Louis I put my youth -behind me; that which followed was both sobering and broadening. But on -this farm, beside this charming river, I paused for a few days and took -stock of my life thus far, and it certainly seemed pointless and -unpromising. I thought constantly and desperately of my future, the -uncertainty of it, and yet all the while my eye was fixed not upon any -really practical solution for me but rather upon the pleasures and -luxuries of life as enjoyed by others, the fine houses, the fine -clothes, the privilege of traveling, of sharing in the amusements of the -rich and the clever. Here I was, at the foot of the ladder, with not the -least skill for making money, compelled to make my way upward as best I -might, and yet thinking in terms of millions always. However much I -might earn in journalism, I had sense enough to know that it would yield -me little or nothing. After some thought, I decided that I would move on -to some other city, where I would get into the newspaper business for a -while and then see what I should see. - -Indeed I never saw Mich but once again. - -But Toledo. This was my first free and unaided flight into the unknown. -I found here a city far more agreeable than St. Louis, which, being much -greater in size, had districts which were positively appalling for their -poverty and vice; whereas here was a city of not quite 100,000, as clean -and fresh as any city could be. I recall being struck with clean asphalt -pavements, a canal or waterway in which many lake vessels were riding, -and houses and stores, frame for the most part, which seemed clean if -not quite new. The first papers I bought, the _Blade_ and the _Bee_, -were full of the usual American small city bluster together with columns -and columns about American politics and business. - -Before seeking work I decided to investigate the town. I was intensely -interested in America and its cities, and wondered, in spite of my -interest in New York, which I would select for my permanent -resting-place. When was I to have a home of my own? Would it be as -pleasing as one of these many which here and elsewhere I saw in quiet -rows shaded by trees, many of them with spacious lawns and suggestive of -that security and comfort so dear to the mollusc-like human heart? For, -after security, nothing seems to be so important or so desirable to the -human organism as rest, or at least ease. The one thing that the life -force seems to desire to escape is work, or at any rate strife. One -would think that man had been invented against his will by some malign -power and was being harried along ways and to tasks against which his -soul revolted and to which his strength was not equal. - -As I walked about the streets of this city my soul panted for the -seeming comfort and luxury of them. The well-kept lawns, the shuttered -and laced windows! The wonder of evening fires in winter! The open, cool -and shadowy doors in summer! Swings and hammocks on lawns and porches! -The luxury of the book and rocker! Somehow in the stress of my disturbed -youth I had missed most of this. - -After a day of looking about the city I applied to the city editor of -the leading morning paper, and encountered one of the intellectual -experiences of my life. At the city editorial desk in a small and not -too comfortable room sat a small cherubic individual, with a complexion -of milk and cream, light brown hair and a serene blue eye, who looked me -over quizzically, as much as to say: “Look what the latest breeze has -wafted in.” His attitude was neither antagonistic nor welcoming. He was -so assured that I half-detected on sight the speculative thinker and -dreamer. Yet in the rôle of city editor in a mid-West manufacturing town -one must have an air if not the substance of commercial understanding -and ability, and so my young city editor seemed to breathe a -determination to be very executive and forceful. - -“You’re a St. Louis newspaper man, eh?” he said, eyeing me casually. -“Never worked in a town of this size, though? Well, the conditions are -very different. We pay much attention to small items—make a good deal -out of nothing,” and he smiled. “But there isn’t a thing I can see now, -nothing beyond a three- or four-day job which you wouldn’t want, I’m -sure.” - -“How do you know I wouldn’t?” - -“Well, I’ll tell you about it. There’s a street-car strike on and I -could use a man who had nerve enough to ride around on the cars the -company is attempting to run and report how things are. But I’ll tell -you frankly: it’s dangerous. You may be shot or hit with a brick.” - -I indicated my willingness to undertake this and he looked at me in a -mock serious and yet approving way. He took me on and I went about the -city on one car-line and another, studying the strange streets, -expecting and fearing every moment that a brick might be shied at me -through the window or that a gang of irate workingmen would board the -car and beat me up. But nothing happened, not a single threatening -workman anywhere; I so reported and was told to write it up and make as -much of the “story” as possible. Without knowing anything of the merits -of the case, my sympathies were all with the workingmen. I had seen -enough of strikes, and of poverty, and of the quarrels between the -money-lords and the poor, to be all on one side. As was the custom in -all newspaper offices with which I ever had anything to do, where labor -and capital were concerned I was told to be neutral and not antagonize -either side. I wrote my “story” and it was published in the first -edition. Then, at the order of this same youth, I visited some charity -bazaar, where all the important paintings owned in the city were being -exhibited, and wrote an account which was headed, “As in Old Toledo,” -with all the silly chaff about “gallants and ladies gay,” after which I -spread my feet under a desk, being interested to talk more with the -smiling if indifferent youth who had employed me. - -The opportunity soon came, for apparently he was as much interested in -me as I in him. He came over after I had submitted my second bit of copy -and announced that it was entirely satisfactory. A man from the -composing-room entered and commented on the fact that James Whitcomb -Riley and Eugene Field were billed to lecture in the city soon. I -remarked that I had once seen Field in the office of the News in -Chicago, which brought out the fact that my city editor had once worked -in Chicago, had been a member of the Whitechapel Club, knew Field, -Finley Peter Dunne, Brand Whitlock, Ben King and others. At mention of -the magic name of Ben King, author of “If I Should Die Tonight” and -“Jane Jones,” the atmosphere of Chicago of the time of the Whitechapel -Club and Eugene Field and Ben King returned. At once we fell into a -varied and gay exchange of intimacies. - -It resulted in an enduring and yet stormy and disillusioning friendship. -If he had been a girl I would have married him, of course. It would have -been inevitable. We were intellectual affinities. Our dreams were -practically identical, though we approached them from different angles. -He was the sentimentalist in thought, though the realist in action; I -was the realist in thought and the sentimentalist in action. He took me -out to lunch, and we stayed nearly three hours. He took me to dinner, -and to do so was compelled to call up his wife and say he had to stay in -town. He had dreams of becoming a poet and novelist, I of becoming a -playwright. Before the second day had gone he had shown me a book of -fairy-tales and some poems. I became enamored of him, the victim of a -delightful illusion. - -Because he liked me he wanted me to stay on. There was no immediate -place, he said, but one might open at any time. Having very little -money, I could not see my way to that, but I did try to get a place on -the rival paper. That failing, he suggested that although I wander on -toward Cleveland and Buffalo I stand ready to come back if he -telegraphed for me. Meanwhile we reveled in that wonderful possession, -intellectual affection. I thought him wonderful, perfect, great; he -thought—well, I have heard him tell in after years what he thought. Even -now at times he fixes me with hungry, welcoming eyes. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LVII - - -WHETHER I should go East or West suddenly became a question with me. I -had the feeling that I might do better in Detroit or some point west of -Chicago, only the nearness of such cities as Cleveland, Buffalo, -Pittsburgh and those farther east deterred me; the cost of reaching them -was small, and all the while I should be moving toward my brother in New -York. And so, after making inquiry at the office of the _Bee_ for a -possible opening and finding none, and learning from several newspaper -men that Detroit was not considered a live journalistic town, I decided -to travel eastward, and bought a ticket to Cleveland. - -Riding in sight of the tumbling waves of Lake Erie, I was taken back in -thought to my days in Chicago and all those who had already dropped out -of my life forever. What a queer, haphazard, disconnected thing this -living was! Where should I be tomorrow, what doing—the next year—the -year after that? Should I ever have any money, any standing, any -friends? So I tortured myself. Arriving in Cleveland at the close of a -smoky gray afternoon, I left my bag at the station and sought a room, -then walked out to see what I should see. I knew no one. Not a friend -anywhere within five hundred miles. My sole resource my little skill as -a newspaper worker. Buying the afternoon and morning papers, I examined -them with care, copying down their editorial room addresses, then betook -me to a small beanery for food. - -The next morning I was up early, determined to see as much as I could, -to visit the offices of the afternoon papers before noon, then to look -in upon the city editors of the two or three morning papers. The latter -proved not very friendly and there appeared to be no opening anywhere. -But I determined to remain here for a few days studying the city as a -city and visiting the same editors each day or as often as they would -endure me. If nothing came of it within a week, and no telegram came -from my friend H—— in Toledo calling me back, I proposed to move on; to -which city I had not as yet made up my mind. - -The thing that interested me most about Cleveland then was that it was -so raw, dark, dirty, smoky, and yet possessed of one thing: force, -raucous, clattering, semi-intelligent force. America was then so new -industrially, in the furnace stage of its existence. Everything was in -the making: fortunes, art, social and commercial life. The most -impressive things were its rich men, their homes, factories, clubs, -office buildings and institutions of commerce and pleasure generally; -and this was as true of Cleveland as of any other city in America. - -Indeed the thing which held my attention, after I had been in Cleveland -a day or two and had established myself in a somber room in a somber -neighborhood once occupied by the very rich, were those great and new -residences in Euclid Avenue, with wide lawns and iron or stone statues -of stags and dogs and deer, which were occupied by such rich men as John -D. Rockefeller, Tom Johnson, and Henry M. Flagler. Rockefeller only a -year or two before had given millions to revivify the almost defunct -University of Chicago, then a small Baptist college, and was accordingly -being hailed as one of the richest men of America. He and his satellites -and confreres were already casting a luster over Cleveland. They were -all living here in Euclid Avenue, and I was interested to look up their -homes, envying them their wealth of course and wishing that I were -famous or a member of a wealthy family, and that I might some day meet -one of the beautiful girls I thought must be here and have her fall in -love with and make me rich. Physically or artistically or materially, -there was nothing to see but business: a few large hotels, like those of -every American city, and these few great houses. Add a few theaters and -commonplace churches. All American cities and all the inhabitants were -busy with but one thing: commerce. They ate, drank and slept trade. In -my wanderings I found a huge steel works and a world of low, smoky, -pathetic little hovels about it. Although I was not as yet given to -reasoning about the profound delusion of equality under democracy, this -evidence of the little brain toiling for the big one struck me with -great force and produced a good deal of speculative thought later on. - -The paper with which I was eventually connected was the Cleveland -_Leader_, which represented all that was conservative in the local life. -Wandering into its office on the second or third day of my stay, I was -met at the desk of the city editor by a small, boyish-looking person of -a ferret-like countenance, who wanted to know what I was after. I told -him, and he said there was nothing, but on hearing of the papers with -which I had been connected and the nature of the work I had done he -suggested that possibly I might be able to do something for the Sunday -edition. The Sunday editor proved to be a tall, melancholy man with sad -eyes, a sallow face, sunken cheeks, narrow shoulders and a general air -of weariness and depression. - -“What is it, now, you want?” he asked slowly, looking up from his musty -roll-top desk. - -“Your city editor suggested that possibly you might have some Sunday -work for me to do. I’ve had experience in this line in Chicago and St. -Louis.” - -“Yes,” he said not asking me to sit down. “Well, now, what do you think -you could write about?” - -This was a poser. Being new to the city I had not thought of any -particular thing, and could not at this moment. I told him this. - -“There’s one thing you might write about if you could. Did you ever hear -of a new-style grain-boat they are putting on the Lakes called——” - -“Turtle-back?” I interrupted. - -“Turtle-back?” went on the editor indifferently. “Well, there’s one here -now in the harbor. It’s the first one to come here. Do you think you -could get up something on that?” - -“I’m sure I could. I’d like to try. Do you use pictures?” - -“You might get a photo or two; we could have drawings made from them.” - -I started for the door, eager to be about this, when he said: “We don’t -pay very much: three dollars a column.” - -That was discouraging, but I was filled with the joy of doing something. -On my way out I stopped at the business office and bought a copy of the -last Sunday issue, which proved to be a poor makeshift composed of a -half dozen articles on local enterprises and illustrated with a few -crude drawings. I read one or two of them, and then looked up my -waterfront boat. I found it tied up at a dock adjoining an immense -railroad yard and near an imposing grain elevator. Finding nobody about, -I nosed out the bookkeeper of the grain elevator, who told me that the -captain of the boat had gone to the company’s local office in a nearby -street. I hastened to the place, and there found a bluff old lake -captain in blue, short, stout, ruddy, coarse, who volunteered, almost -with a “Heigh!” and a “Ho!” to tell me something about it. - -“I think I ought to know a little something about ’em—I sailed the first -one that was ever sailed out of the port of Chicago.” - -I listened with open ears. I caught a disjointed story of plans and -specifications, Sault Ste. Marie, the pine woods of Northern Michigan, -the vast grain business of Chicago and other lake ports, early -navigation on the lakes, the theory of a bilge keel and a turtle-back -top, and all strung together with numerous “y’sees” and “so nows.” I -made notes, on backs of envelopes, scraps of paper, and finally on a pad -furnished me by the generous bookkeeper. I carried my notes back to the -paper. - -The Sunday editor was out. I waited patiently until half-past four, and -then, the light fading, gave up the idea of going with a photographer to -the boat. I went to a faded green baize-covered table and began to write -my story. I had no sooner done a paragraph or two than the Sunday editor -returned, bringing with him an atmosphere of lassitude and indifference. -I went to him to explain what I had done. - -“Well, write it up, write it up. We’ll see,” and he turned away to his -papers. - -I labored hard at my story, and by seven or eight o’clock had ground out -two thousand words of description which had more of the bluff old -captain in it than of the boat. The Sunday editor took it when I was -through, and shoved it into a pigeon-hole, telling me to call in a day -or two and he would let me know. I thought this strange. It seemed to me -that if I were working for a Sunday paper I should work every day. I -called the next day, but Mr. Loomis had not read it. The next day he -said the story was well enough written, though very long. “You don’t -want to write so loosely. Stick to your facts closer.” - -This day I suggested a subject of my own, “the beauty of some of the new -suburbs,” but he frowned at this as offering a lot of free advertising -to real estate men who ought to be made to pay. Then I proposed an -article on the magnificence of Euclid Avenue, which was turned down as -old. I then spoke of a great steel works which was but then coming into -the city, but as this offered great opportunity to all the papers he -thought poorly of it. He compromised a day or two later by allowing me -to write up a chicken-farm which lay outside the city. - -Of course this made a poor showing for me at the cashier’s desk. At the -end of the second week I was allowed to put in a bill for seven dollars -and a half. I had not realized that I was wasting so much time. I -appealed to all the editors again for a regular staff position, but was -told there was no opening. It began to look as if I should have to leave -Cleveland soon, and I wondered where I should go next—Buffalo or -Pittsburgh, both equally near. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LVIII - - -FINDING Cleveland hopeless for me, I one day picked up and left. Then -came Buffalo, which I reached toward the end of March. Aside from the -Falls I found it a little tame, no especial snap to it—not as much as I -had felt to be characteristic of Cleveland. What interest there was for -me I provided myself, wandering about in odd drear neighborhoods, about -grain elevators and soap factories and railroad yards and manufacturing -districts. Here, as in Cleveland, I could not help but see that in spite -of our boasted democracy and equality of opportunity there was as much -misery and squalor and as little decent balancing of opportunity against -energy as anywhere else in the world. The little homes, the poor, -shabby, colorless, drear, drab little homes with their grassless -“yards,” their unpaved streets, their uncollected garbage, their -fluttering, thin-flamed gas-lamps, the crowds of ragged, dirty, -ill-cared-for children! Near at hand was always the inevitable and -wretched saloon, not satisfying a need for pleasure in a decent way but -pandering to the lowest and most conniving and most destroying instincts -of the lowest politicians and heelers and grafters and crooks, while the -huge financial and manufacturing magnates at the top with their lust for -power and authority used the very flesh of the weaker elements for -purposes of their own. It was the saloon, not liquor, which brought -about the prohibition folly. I used to listen, as a part of my -reportorial duties, to the blatherings of thin-minded, thin-blooded, -thin-experienced religionists as well as to those of kept editorial -writers, about the merits and blessings and opportunities of our noble -and bounteous land; but whenever I encountered such regions as this I -knew well enough that there was something wrong with their noble -maunderings. Shout as they might, there was here displayed before my -very eyes ample evidence that somewhere there was a screw loose in the -“Fatherhood of Man—Brotherhood of God” machinery. - -After I had placed myself in a commonplace neighborhood near the -business center, I canvassed the newspaper offices and their editors. -Although I had in my pocket that letter from the publisher of the St. -Louis _Republic_ extolling my virtues as a reporter and correspondent, -so truly vagrom was my mood and practical judgment that I did not -present it to any one. Instead I merely mooned into one office after -another (there were only four papers here), convinced before entering -that I should not get anything—and I did not. One young city editor, -seeming to take at least an interest in me, assured me that if I would -remain in Buffalo for six weeks he could place me; but since I had not -enough money to sustain myself so long I decided not to wait. Ten days -spent in reconnoitering these offices daily, and I concluded that it was -useless to remain longer. Yet before I went I determined to see at least -one thing more: the Falls. - -Therefore one day I traveled by trolley to Niagara and looked at that -tumbling flood, then not chained or drained by turbine water-power -sluices. I was impressed, but not quite so much as I had thought I -should be. Standing out on a rock near the greatest volume of water -under a gray sky, I was awed by the downpour and then became dizzy and -felt as though I were being carried along whether I would or not. -Farther upstream I stared at the water as it gathered force and speed, -wondering how I should feel if I were in a small canoe and fighting it -for my life. Behind the falls were great stalagmites and stalactites of -ice and snow still standing from the cold of weeks before. I recalled -that Blondel, a famous French swimmer of his day, had ten years before -swum these fierce and angry waters below the Falls. I wondered how he -had done it, so wildly did they leap, huge wheels of water going round -and round and whitecaps leaping and spitting and striking at each other. - -When I returned to Buffalo I congratulated myself that if I had got -nothing else out of my visit to Buffalo, at least I had gained this. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LIX - - -I NOW decided that Pittsburgh would be as good a field as any, and one -morning seeing a sign outside a cut-rate ticket-broker’s window reading -“Pittsburgh, $5.75,” I bought a ticket, returned to my small room to -pack my bag, and departed. I arrived at Pittsburgh at six or seven that -same evening. - -Of all the cities in which I ever worked or lived Pittsburgh was the -most agreeable. Perhaps it was due to the fact that my stay included -only spring, summer and fall, or that I found a peculiarly easy -newspaper atmosphere, or that the city was so different physically from -any I had thus far seen; but whether owing to one thing or another -certainly no other newspaper work I ever did seemed so pleasant, no -other city more interesting. What a city for a realist to work and dream -in! The wonder to me is that it has not produced a score of writers, -poets, painters and sculptors, instead of—well, how many? And who are -they? - -I came down to it through the brown-blue mountains of Western -Pennsylvania, and all day long we had been winding at the base of one or -another of them, following the bed of a stream or turning out into a -broad smooth valley, crossing directly at the center of it, or climbing -some low ridge with a puff-puff-puff and then clattering almost -recklessly down the other slope. I had never before seen any mountains. -The sight of sooty-faced miners at certain places, their little oil and -tow tin lamps fastened to their hats, their tin dinner-pails on their -arms, impressed me as something new and faintly reminiscent of the one -or two small coal mines about Sullivan, Indiana, where I had lived when -I was a boy of seven. Along the way I saw a heavy-faced and heavy-bodied -type of peasant woman, with a black or brown or blue or green skirt and -a waist of a contrasting color, a headcloth or neckerchief of still -another, trailed by a few children of equally solid proportions, hanging -up clothes or doing something else about their miserable places. These -were the much-maligned hunkies just then being imported by the large -manufacturing and mining and steel-making industries of the country to -take the place of the restless and less docile American working man and -woman. I marveled at their appearance and number, and assumed, -American-fashion, that in their far-off and unhappy lands they had heard -of the wonderful American Constitution, its guaranty of life, liberty -and the pursuit of happiness, as well as of the bounteous opportunities -afforded by this great land, and that they had forsaken their miseries -to come all this distance to enjoy these greater blessings. - -I did not then know of the manufacturers’ foreign labor agent with his -lying propaganda among ignorant and often fairly contented peasants, -painting America as a country rolling in wealth and opportunity, and -then bringing them here to take the places of more restless and greatly -underpaid foreigners who, having been brought over by the same gay -pictures, were becoming irritated and demanded more pay. I did not then -know of the padrone, the labor spy, the company store, five cents an -hour for breaker children, the company stockade, all in full operation -at this time. All I knew was that there had been a great steel strike in -Pittsburgh recently, that Andrew Carnegie, as well as other steel -manufacturers (the Olivers, for one), had built fences and strung them -with electrified barbed wire in order to protect themselves against the -“lawless” attacks of “lawless” workingmen. - -I also knew that a large number of State or county or city paid deputy -sheriffs and mounted police and city policemen had been sworn in and set -to guarding the company’s property and that H. C. Frick, a leading steel -manager for Mr. Carnegie, had been slightly wounded by a desperado named -Alexander Berkman, who was inflaming these workingmen, all foreigners of -course, lawless and unappreciative of the great and prosperous steel -company which was paying them reasonable wages and against which they -had no honest complaint. - -Our mid-Western papers, up to the day of Cleveland’s election in 1892 -and for some time after, had been full of the merits of this labor -dispute, with long and didactic editorials, intended in the main to -prove that the workingman was not so greatly underpaid, considering the -type of labor he performed and the intelligence he brought to his task; -that the public was not in the main vastly interested in labor disputes, -both parties to the dispute being unduly selfish; that it would be a -severe blow to the prosperity of the country if labor disputes were too -long continued; that unless labor was reasonable in its demands capital -would become disheartened and leave the country. I had not made up my -mind that the argument was all on one side, although I knew that the -average man in America, despite its great and boundless opportunities, -was about as much put upon and kicked about and underpaid as any other. -This growing labor problem or the general American dissatisfaction with -poor returns upon efforts made crystallized three years later in the -Free Silver campaign and the “gold parades.” The “full dinner-pail” was -then invented as a slogan to counteract the vast economic unrest, and -the threat to close down and so bring misery to the entire country -unless William McKinley was elected was also freely posted. Henry -George, Father McGlynn, Herr Most, Emma Goldman, and a score of others -were abroad voicing the woes of hundreds of thousands who were supposed -to have no woes. - -At that time, as I see it now, America was just entering upon the most -lurid phase of that vast, splendid, most lawless and most savage period -in which the great financiers were plotting and conniving at the -enslavement of the people and belaboring each other. Those crude parvenu -dynasties which now sit enthroned in our democracy, threatening its very -life with their pretensions and assumptions, were then in their very -beginning. John D. Rockefeller was still in Cleveland; Flagler, William -Rockefeller, H. H. Rogers, were still comparatively young and secret -agents; Carnegie was still in Pittsburgh, an iron master, and of all his -brood of powerful children only Frick had appeared; William H. -Vanderbilt and Jay Gould had only recently died; Cleveland was -President, and Mark Hanna was an unknown business man in Cleveland. The -great struggles of the railroads, the coal companies, the gas companies, -to overawe and tax the people were still in abeyance, or just being -born. The multi-millionaire had arrived, it is true, but not the -billionaire. On every hand were giants plotting, fighting, dreaming; and -yet in Pittsburgh there was still something of a singing spirit. - -When I arrived here and came out of the railway station, which was -directly across the Monongahela River from the business center, I was -impressed by the huge walls of hills that arose on every hand, a great -black sheer ridge rising to a height of five or six hundred feet to my -right and enclosing this river, on the bosom of which lay steamboats of -good size. From the station a pleasingly designed bridge of fair size -led to the city beyond, and across it trundled in unbroken lines -street-cars and wagons and buggies of all sizes and descriptions. The -city itself was already smartly outlined by lights, a galaxy climbing -the hills in every direction, and below me as I walked out upon this -bridge was an agate stream reflecting the lights from either shore. -Below this was another bridge, and upstream another. The whole river for -a mile or more was suddenly lit to a rosy glow, a glow which, as I saw -upon turning, came from the tops of some forty or fifty stacks belching -a deep orange-red flame. At the same time an enormous pounding and -crackling came from somewhere, as though titans were at work upon -subterranean anvils. I stared and admired. I felt that I was truly -adventuring into a new and strange world. I was glad now that I had not -found work in Toledo or Cleveland or Buffalo. - -The city beyond the river proved as interesting as the river cliffs and -forges about the station. As I walked along I discovered the name of the -street (Smithfield), which began at the bridge’s end and was lined with -buildings of not more than three or four stories although it was one of -the principal streets of the business center. At the bridge-head on the -city side stood a large smoke-colored stone building, which later I -discovered was the principal hotel, the Monongahela, and beyond that was -a most attractive and unusual postoffice building. I came to a cross -street finally (Fifth Avenue), brightly lighted and carrying unusual -traffic, and turned into it. I found this central region to be most -puzzlingly laid out, and did not attempt to solve its mysteries. -Instead, I entered a modest restaurant in a side street. Later I hunted -up a small hotel, where I paid a dollar for a room for the night. I -retired, speculating as to how I should make out here. Something about -the city drew me intensely. I wished I might remain for a time. The next -morning I was up bright and early to look up the morning papers and find -out the names of the afternoon papers. I found that there were four: the -_Dispatch_ and _Times_, morning papers, and the GAZETTE-TELEGRAPH and -_Leader_, afternoon. I thought them most interesting and different from -those of other cities in which I had worked. - - “Andy Pastor had his right hand lacerated while at work in the - 23-inch mill yesterday.” - - “John Kristoff had his right wrist sprained while at work in the - 140-inch mill yesterday.” - - “Joseph Novic is suffering from contused wounds of the left - wrist received while at work in the 23-inch mill yesterday.” - - “A train of hot metal, being hauled from a mixing-house to open - hearth No. 2, was side-swiped by a yard engine near the 48-inch - mill. The impact tilted the ladles of some of the cars and the - hot metal spilled in a pool of water along the track. Antony - Brosak, Constantine Czernik and Kafros Maskar were seriously - wounded by the exploding metal.” - -Such items arrested my attention at once; and then such names as -Squirrel Hill, Sawmill Run, Moon Run, Hazelwood, Wind Gap Road, -Braddock, McKeesport, Homestead, Swissvale, somehow made me wish to know -more of this region. - -The _Dispatch_ was Republican, the _Times_ Democratic. Both were -evidently edited with much conservatism as to local news. I made haste -to visit the afternoon newspaper offices, only to discover that they -were fully equipped with writers. I then proceeded in search of a room -and finally found one in Wylie Avenue, a curious street that climbed a -hill to its top and then stopped. Here, almost at the top of this hill, -in an old yellow stonefront house the rear rooms of which commanded a -long and deep canyon or “run,” I took a room for a week. The family of -this house rented rooms to several others, clerks who looked and proved -to be a genial sort, holding a kind of court on the front steps of an -evening. - -I now turned to the morning papers, going first to the _Times_, which -had its offices in a handsome building, one of the two or three high -office buildings in the city. The city editor received me graciously but -could promise nothing. At the _Dispatch_, which was published in a -three-story building at Smithfield and Diamond streets, I found a man -who expressed much more interest. He was a slender, soft-spoken, -one-handed man. On very short acquaintance I found him to be shrewd and -canny, gracious always, exceedingly reticent and uncommunicative and an -excellent judge of news, and plainly holding his job not so much by -reason of what he put into his paper as by what he kept out of it. He -wanted to know where I had worked before I came to Pittsburgh, whether I -had been connected with any paper here, whether I had ever done feature -stuff. I described my experiences as nearly as I could, and finally he -said that there was nothing now but he was expecting a vacancy to occur -soon. If I could come around in the course of a week or ten days (I -drooped sadly)—well, then, in three or four days, he thought he might do -something for me. The salary would not be more than eighteen the week. -My spirits fell at that, but his manner was so agreeable and his hope -for me so keen that I felt greatly encouraged and told him I would wait -a few days anyhow. My friend in Toledo had promised me that he would -wire me at the first opening, and I was now expecting some word from -him. This I told to this city editor, and he said: “Well, you might wait -until you hear from him anyhow.” A thought of my possible lean purse did -not seem to occur to him, and I marveled at the casual manner in which -he assumed that I could wait. - -Thereafter I roamed the city and its environs, and to my delight found -it to be one of the most curious and fascinating places I had ever seen. -From a stationery store I first secured a map and figured out the lay of -the town. At a glance I saw that the greater part of it stretched -eastward along the tongue of land that was between the Allegheny and the -Monongahela, and that this was Pittsburgh proper. Across the Allegheny, -on the north side, was the city of Allegheny, an individual municipality -but so completely connected with Pittsburgh as to be identical with it, -and connected with it by many bridges. Across the Monongahela, on the -south side, were various towns: Mt. Washington, Duquesne, Homestead. I -was interested especially in Homestead because of the long and bitter -contest between the steel-workers and the Carnegie Company, which for -six months and more in 1892 had occupied space on the front page of -every newspaper in America. - -Having studied my map I explored, going first across the river into -Allegheny. Here I found a city built about the base of high granite -hills or between ridges in hollows called “gaps” or “runs” with a street -or car-line clambering and twisting directly over them. A charming park -and boulevard system had been laid out, with the city hall, a public -market and a Carnegie public library as a center. The place had large -dry-goods and business houses. - -On another day I crossed to the south side and ascended by an inclined -plane, such as later I discovered to be one of the transportation -features of Pittsburgh, the hill called Mt. Washington, from the top of -which, walking along an avenue called Grand View Boulevard which skirted -the brow of the hill, I had the finest view of a city I have ever seen. -In later years I looked down upon New York from the heights of the -Palisades and the hills of Staten Island; on Rome from the Pincian -Gardens; on Florence from San Miniato; and on Pasadena and Los Angeles -from the slopes of Mt. Lowe; but never anywhere have I seen a scene -which impressed me more than this: the rugged beauty of the mountains, -which encircle the city, the three rivers that run as threads of bright -metal, dividing it into three parts, the several cities joined as one, -their clambering streets presenting a checkered pattern emphasized here -and there by the soot-darkened spires of churches and the walls of the -taller and newer and cleaner office buildings. - -As in most American cities of any size, the skyscraper was just being -introduced and being welcomed as full proof of the growth and wealth and -force of the city. No city was complete without at least one: the more, -of course, the grander. - -Pittsburgh had a better claim to the skyscraper as a commercial -necessity than any other American city that I know. The tongue of land -which lies between the Allegheny and the Monongahela, very likely not -more than two or three square miles in extent, is still the natural -heart of the commercial life for fifty, a hundred miles about. Here meet -the three large rivers, all navigable. Here, again, the natural runs and -gaps of the various hills about, as well as the levels which pursue the -banks of the streams and which are the natural vents or routes for -railroad lines, street-cars and streets, come to a common center. -Whether by bridges from Allegheny, the south bank of the Ohio or the -Monongahela, or along the shores of the Allegheny or Monongahela within -the city of Pittsburgh itself, all meet somewhere in this level tongue; -and here, of necessity, is the business center. So without the tall -building, I cannot see how one-tenth of the business which would and -should be normally transacted here would ever come about. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LX - - -BARRING two or three tall buildings, the city of Pittsburgh was then of -a simple and homelike aspect. A few blackened church spires, a small -dark city hall and an old market-place, a long stretch of blast -furnaces, black as night, and the lightly constructed bridges over the -rivers, gave it all an airy grace and charm. - -Since the houses up here were very simple, mostly working-men’s -cottages, and the streets back followed the crests of hills twisting and -winding as they went and providing in consequence the most startling and -effective views of green hills and mountains beyond, I decided that -should I be so fortunate as to secure work I would move over here. It -would be like living in a mountain resort, and most inexpensively. - -I descended and took a car which followed the Monongahela upstream to -Homestead, and here for the first time had a view of that enormous steel -plant which only recently (June to December, 1892) had played such a -great part in the industrial drama of America. The details of the -quarrel were fairly fresh in my mind: how the Carnegie Steel Company had -planned, with the technicalities of a wage-scale readjustment as an -excuse, to break the power of the Amalgamated Steel Workers, who were -becoming too forceful and who were best organized in their plant, and -how the Amalgamated, resenting the introduction of three hundred -Pinkerton guards to “protect” the plant, had attacked them, killing -several and injuring others, and so permitting the introduction of the -State militia, which speedily and permanently broke the power of the -strikers. They could only wait then and starve, and so they had waited -and starved for six months, when they finally returned to work, such of -them as would be received. When I reached there in April, 1894, the -battle was already fifteen months past, but the feeling was still alive. -I did not then know what it was about this town of Homestead that was so -depressing, but in the six months of my stay here I found that it was a -compound of a sense of defeat and sullen despair. The men had not -forgotten. Even then the company was busy, and had been for months, -importing Poles, Hungarians, Lithuanians, to take the places of the -ousted strikers. Whole colonies were already here, housed under the most -unsatisfactory conditions, and more were coming. Hence the despair of -those who had been defeated. - -Along the river sprawled for a quarter of a mile or more the huge low -length of the furnaces, great black bottle-like affairs with rows of -stacks and long low sheds or buildings paralleling them, sheds from -which came a continuous hammering and sputtering and the glow of red -fire. The whole was shrouded by a pall of gray smoke, even in the bright -sunshine. Above the plant, on a slope which rose steeply behind it, were -a few moderately attractive dwellings grouped about two small parks, the -trees of which were languishing for want of air. Behind and to the sides -of these were the spires of several churches, those soporifics against -failure and despair. Turning up side streets one found, invariably, -uniform frame houses, closely built and dulled by smoke and grime, and -below, on the flats behind the mill, were cluttered alleys so unsightly -and unsanitary as to shock me into the belief that I was once more -witnessing the lowest phases of Chicago slum-life, the worst I had ever -seen. The streets were mere mud-tracks. Where there were trees (and -there were few) they were dwarfed and their foliage withered by a -metallic fume which was over all. Though the sun was bright at the top -of the hill, down here it was gray, almost cloudy, at best a filtered -dull gold haze. - -The place held me until night. I browsed about its saloons, of which -there was a large number, most of them idle during the drift of the -afternoon. The open gates of the mill held my interest also, for through -them I could see furnaces, huge cranes, switching engines, cars of -molten iron being hauled to and fro, and mountains of powdered iron ore -and scrap iron piled here and there awaiting the hour of new birth in -the smelting vats. When the sun had gone down, and I had watched a shift -of men coming out with their buckets and coats over their arms, and -other hundreds entering in a rush, I returned to the city with a sense -of the weight and breadth and depth of huge effort. Here bridges and -rail and plate steel were made for all the world. But of all these units -that dwelt and labored here scarce a fraction seemed even to sense a -portion of the meaning of all they did. I knew that Carnegie had become -a multi-millionaire, as had Phipps and others, and that he was beginning -to give libraries, that Phipps had already given several floral -conservatories, and that their “lobbies” in Congress were even then -bartering for the patronage of the government on their terms; but the -poor units in these hovels at Homestead—what did they know? - -On another day I explored the east end of Pittsburgh, which was the -exclusive residence section of the city and a contrast to such hovels -and deprivations as I had witnessed at Homestead and among the shacks -across the Monongahela and below Mt. Washington. Never in my life, -neither before nor since, in New York, Chicago or elsewhere, was the -vast gap which divides the rich from the poor in America so vividly and -forcefully brought home to me. I had seen on my map a park called -Schenley, and thinking that it might be interesting I made my way out a -main thoroughfare called (quite appropriately, I think) Fifth Avenue, -lined with some of the finest residences of the city. Never did the mere -possession of wealth impress me so keenly. Here were homes of the most -imposing character, huge, verandaed, tree-shaded, with immense lawns, -great stone or iron or hedge fences and formal gardens and walks of a -most ornate character. It was a region of well-curbed, well-drained and -well-paved thoroughfares. Even the street-lamps were of a better design -than elsewhere, so eager was a young and democratic municipality to see -that superior living conditions were provided for the rich. There were -avenues lined with well-cropped trees, and at every turn one encountered -expensive carriages, their horses jingling silver or gold-gilt harness, -their front seats occupied by one or two footmen in livery, while -reclining was Madam or Sir, or both, gazing condescendingly upon the all -too comfortable world about them. - -In Schenley Park was a huge and interesting arboretum or botanical -garden under glass, a most oriental affair given by Phipps of the -Carnegie Company. A large graceful library of white limestone, perhaps -four or five times the size of the one in Allegheny, given by Andrew -Carnegie, was in process of construction. And he was another of the -chief beneficiaries of Homestead, the possessor of a great house in this -region, another in New York and still another in Scotland, a man for -whom the unwitting “Pinkertons” and contending strikers had been killed. -Like huge ribbons of fire these and other names of powerful steel -men—the Olivers, Thaws, Fricks, Thompsons—seemed to rise and band the -sky. It seemed astonishing to me that some men could thus rise and soar -about the heavens like eagles, while others, drab sparrows all, could -only pick among the offal of the hot ways below. What were these things -called democracy and equality about which men prated? Had they any basis -in fact? There was constant palaver about the equality of opportunity -which gave such men as these their chance, but I could not help -speculating as to the lack of equality of opportunity these men created -for others once their equality at the top had made them. If equality of -opportunity had been so excellent for them why not for others, -especially those in their immediate care? True, all men had not the -brains to seize upon and make use of that which was put before them, but -again, not all men of brains had the blessing of opportunity as had -these few men. Strength, as I felt, should not be too arrogant or too -forgetful of the accident or chance by which it had arrived. It might do -something for the poor—pay them decent living wages, for instance. Were -these giants planning to subject their sons and daughters to the same -“equality of opportunity” which had confronted them at the start and -which they were so eager to recommend to the attention of others? Not at -all. In this very neighborhood I passed an exclusive private school for -girls, with great grounds and a beautiful wall—another sample of -equality of opportunity. - -On the fourth day of my stay here I called again at the _Dispatch_ -office and was given a position, but only after the arrival of a -telegram from Toledo offering me work at eighteen a week. Now I had long -since passed out of the eighteen-dollar stage of reporting, and this was -by no means a comforting message. If I could show it to the _Dispatch_ -city editor, I reasoned, it would probably hasten his decision to accept -me, but also he might consider eighteen dollars as a rate of pay -acceptable to me and would offer no more. I decided not to use it just -then but to go first and see if anything had come about in my favor. - -“Nothing yet,” he said on seeing me. “Drop around tomorrow or Saturday. -I’m sure to know then one way or the other.” - -I went out and in the doorway below stood and meditated. What was I to -do? If I delayed too long my friend in Toledo would not be able to do -anything for me, and if I showed this message it would fix my salary at -a place below that which I felt I deserved. I finally hit upon the idea -of changing the eighteen to twenty-five and went to a telegraph office -to find some girl to rewrite it for me. Not seeing a girl I would be -willing to approach, I worked over it myself, carefully erasing and -changing until the twenty-five, while a little forced and scraggly, -looked fairly natural. With this in my pocket I returned to the -_Dispatch_ this same afternoon, and told the city editor with as great -an air of assurance as I could achieve that I had just received this -message and was a little uncertain as to what to do about it. “The fact -is,” I said, “I have started from the West to go East. New York is my -eventual goal, unless I find a good place this side of it. But I’m up -against it now and unless I can do something here I might as well go -back there for the present. I wouldn’t show you this except that I must -answer it tonight.” - -He read it and looked at me uncertainly. Finally he got up, told me to -wait a minute, and went through a nearby door. In a minute or two he -returned and said: “Well, that’s all right. We can do as well as that, -anyhow, if you want to stay at that rate.” - -“All right,” I replied as nonchalantly as I could. “When do I start?” - -“Come around tomorrow at twelve. I may not have anything for you, but -I’ll carry you for a day or two until I have.” - -I trotted down the nearby steps as fast as my feet would carry me, -anxious to get out of his sight so that I might congratulate myself -freely. I hurried to a telegraph office to reject my friend’s offer. To -celebrate my cleverness and success I indulged in a good meal at one of -the best restaurants. Here I sat, and to prepare myself for my work -examined that day’s _Dispatch_, as well as the other papers, with a view -to unraveling their method of treating a feature or a striking piece of -news, also to discover what they considered a feature. By nine or ten I -had solved that mystery as well as I could, and then to quiet my excited -nerves I walked about the business section, finally crossing to Mt. -Washington so as to view the lighted city at night from this great -height. It was radiantly clear up there, and a young moon shining, and I -had the pleasure of looking down upon as wonderful a night panorama as I -have ever seen, a winking and fluttering field of diamonds that -outrivaled the sky itself. As far as the eye could see were these lamps -blinking and winking, and overhead was another glistering field of -stars. Below was that enormous group of stacks with their red tongues -waving in the wind. Far up the Monongahela, where lay Homestead and -McKeesport and Braddock and Swissvale, other glows of red fire indicated -where huge furnaces were blazing and boiling in the night. I thought of -the nest of slums I had seen at Homestead, of those fine houses in the -east end, and of Carnegie with his libraries, of Phipps with his glass -conservatories. How to get up in the world and be somebody was my own -thought now, and yet I knew that wealth was not for me. The best I -should ever do was to think and dream, standing aloof as a spectator. - -The next day I began work on the _Dispatch_ and for six months was a -part of it, beginning with ordinary news reporting, but gradually taking -up the task of preparing original column features, first for the daily -and later for the Sunday issue. Still later, not long before I left, I -was by way of being an unpaid assistant to the dramatic editor, and a -traveling correspondent. - -What impressed me most was the peculiar character of the city and the -newspaper world here, the more or less somnolent nature of its -population (apart from the steel companies and their employees) and the -genial and sociable character of the newspaper men. Never had I -encountered more intelligent or helpful or companionable albeit cynical -men than I found here. They knew the world, and their opportunities for -studying public as well as private impulses and desires and contrasting -them with public and private performances were so great as to make them -puzzled if not always accurate judges of affairs and events. One can -always talk to a newspaper man, I think, with the full confidence that -one is talking to a man who is at least free of moralistic mush. Nearly -everything in connection with those trashy romances of justice, truth, -mercy, patriotism, public profession of all sorts, is already and -forever gone if they have been in the business for any length of time. -The religionist is seen by them for what he is: a swallower of romance -or a masquerader looking to profit and preferment. Of the politician, -they know or believe but one thing: that he is out for himself, a -trickster artfully juggling with the moods and passions and ignorance of -the public. Judges are men who have by some chance or other secured good -positions and are careful to trim their sails according to the moods and -passions of the strongest element in any community or nation in which -they chance to be. The arts are in the main to be respected, when they -are not frankly confessed to be enigmas. - -In a very little while I came to be on friendly terms with the men of -this and some other papers, men who, because of their intimate contact -with local political and social conditions, were well fitted to -enlighten me as to the exact economic and political conditions here. Two -in particular, the political and labor men of this paper were most -helpful. The former, a large, genial, commercial-drummer type, who might -also have made an excellent theatrical manager or promoter, provided me -with a clear insight into the general cleavage of local and State -politics and personalities. I liked him very much. The other, the labor -man, was a slow, silent, dark, square-shouldered and almost -square-headed youth, who drifted in and out of the office irregularly. -He it was who attended, when permitted by the working people themselves, -all labor meetings in the city or elsewhere, as far east at times as the -hard coal regions about Wilkes-Barre and Scranton. As he himself told -me, he was the paper’s sole authority for such comments or assertions as -it dared to make in connection with the mining of coal and the -manufacture of steel. He was an intense sympathizer with labor, but not -so much with organized as with unorganized workers. He believed that -labor here had two years before lost a most important battle, one which -would show in its contests with money in the future: which was true. He -pretended to know that there was a vast movement on foot among the -moneyed elements in America to cripple if not utterly destroy organized -labor, and to that end he assured me once that all the great steel and -coal and oil magnates were in a conspiracy to flood the country with -cheap foreign labor, which they had lured or were luring here by all -sorts of dishonest devices; once here, these immigrants were to be used -to break the demand of better-paid and more intelligent labor. He -pretended to know that in the coal and steel regions thousands had -already been introduced and more were on their way, and that all such -devices as showy churches and schools for defectives, etc., were used to -keep ignorant and tame those already here. - -“But you can’t say anything about it in Pittsburgh,” he said to me. “If -I should talk I’d have to get out of here. The papers here won’t use a -thing unfavorable to the magnates in any of these fields. I write all -sorts of things, but they never get in.” - -He read the _Congressional Record_ daily, as well as various radical -papers from different parts of the country, and was constantly calling -my attention to statistics and incidents which proved that the -workingman was being most unjustly put upon and undermined; but he never -did it in any urgent or disturbed manner. Rather, he seemed to be -profoundly convinced that the cause of the workers everywhere in America -was hopeless. They hadn’t the subtlety and the force and the innate -cruelty of those who ruled them. They were given to religious and -educational illusions, the parochial school and church paper, which left -them helpless. In the course of time, because I expressed interest in -and sympathy for these people, he took me into various mill slums in and -near the city to see how they lived. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXI - - -I WENT with him first to Homestead, then to some tenements there, later -to some other mill districts nearer Pittsburgh, the name of which I have -forgotten. What astonished me, in so far as the steel mills were -concerned, was the large number of furnaces going at once, the piles, -mountains, of powdered iron ore ready to be smelted, the long lines of -cars, flat, box and coal cars, and the nature and size and force of the -machinery used to roll steel. The work, as he or his friends the bosses -showed me, was divided between the “front” and the “back.” Those working -at the front of the furnace took care of the molten ore and slag which -was being “puddled.” The men at the back, the stock and yard men, filled -huge steel buckets or “skips” suspended from traveling cranes with ore, -fuel and limestone, all of which was piled near at hand; this material -was then trundled to a point over the mouth of the melting-vats, as they -were called, and “released” via a movable bottom. At this particular -plant I was told that the machinery for handling all this was better -than elsewhere, the company being richer and more progressive. In some -of the less progressive concerns the men filled carts with raw material -and then trundled them around to the front of a hoist, which was at the -back of the furnace, where they were lifted and dumped into the -furnaces. But in this mill all a man had to do to fill a steel bucket -with raw material was to push one of those steel buckets suspended from -a trolley under a chute and pull a rod, when the “stock” tumbled into -it. From these it was trundled, by machinery, to a point over the -furnace. The furnaces were charged or fed constantly by feeders working -in twelve-hour shifts, so that there was little chance to rest from -their labors. Their pay was not more than half of that paid to the men -at the “front” because it was neither so hard nor so skillful, although -it looked hard enough to me. - -The men at the front, the puddlers, were the labor princes of this realm -and yet among the hardest worked. A puddling or blast furnace was a -brick structure like an oven, about seven feet high and six feet square, -with two compartments, one a receptacle into which pigiron was thrown, -the other a fuel chamber where the melting heat was generated. The -drafts were so arranged that the flame swept from the fuel chamber -directly upon the surface of the iron. From five to six hundred pounds -of pigiron were put into each furnace at one time, after which it was -closed and sufficient heat applied to melt down the iron. Then the -puddler began to work it with an iron rod through a hole in the furnace -door, so as to stir up the liquid and bring it in contact with the air. -As the impurities became separated from the iron and rose to the top as -slag, they were tipped out through a center notch. As it became freer -from impurities, a constantly higher temperature was required to keep -the iron in a liquid condition. Gradually it began to solidify in -granules, much as butter forms in churning. Later it took on or was -worked into large malleable balls or lumps or rolls like butter, three -to any given “charge” or furnace. Then, while still in a comparatively -soft but not molten condition, these were taken out and thrown across a -steel floor to a “taker” to be worked by other machinery and other -processes. - -Puddling was a full-sized man’s job. There were always two, and -sometimes three, to a single furnace, and they took turns at working the -metal, as a rule ten minutes to a turn. No man could stand before a -furnace and perform that back-breaking toil continually. Even when -working by spells a man was often nearly exhausted at the end of his -spell. As a rule he had to go outside and sit on a bench, the -perspiration running off him. The intensity of the heat in those days -(1893) was not as yet relieved by the device of shielding the furnace -with water-cooled plates. The wages of these men was in the neighborhood -of three dollars a day, the highest then paid. Before the great strike -it had been more. - -But the men who most fascinated me were the “roughers” who, once the -puddler had done his work and thrown his lump of red-hot iron out upon -an open hearth, and another man had taken it and thrown it to a -“rougher,” fed it into a second machine which rolled or beat it into a -more easily handled and workable form. The exact details of the process -escape me now, but I remember the picture they presented in those hot, -fire-lighted, noisy and sputtering rooms. Agility and even youth were at -a premium, and a false step possibly meant death. I remember watching -two men in the mill below Mt. Washington, one who pulled out billet -after billet from furnace after furnace and threw them along the steel -floor to the “rougher,” and the latter, who, dressed only in trousers -and a sleeveless flannel shirt, the sweat pouring from his body and his -muscles standing out in knots, took these same and, with the skill and -agility of a tight-rope performer, tossed them into the machine. He was -constantly leaping about thrusting the red billets which came almost in -a stream into or between the first pair of rolls for which they were -intended. And yet before he could turn back there was always another on -the floor behind him. The rolls into which he fed these billets were -built in a train, side by side in line, and as they went through one -pair they had to be seized by a “catcher” and shoved back through the -next. Back and forth, back and forth they went at an ever increasing -speed, until the catcher at the next to the last pair of rolls, seizing -the end of the rod as it came through, still red-hot, described with it -a fiery circle bending it back again to enter the last roll, from which -it passed into water. It was wonderful. - -And yet these men were not looked upon as anything extraordinary. While -the places in which they worked were metal infernos and their toil of -the most intense and exacting character, they were not allowed to -organize to better their condition. The recent great victory of the -steel magnates had settled that. In that very city and elsewhere, these -magnates were rolling in wealth. Their profits were tumbling in so fast -that they scarcely knew what to do with them. Vast libraries and -universities were being built with their gifts. Immense mansions were -crowded with art and historic furniture. Their children were being sent -to special schools to be taught how to be ladies and gentlemen in a -democracy which they contemned; and on the other hand, these sweating -men were being denied an additional five or ten cents an hour and the -right to organize. If they protested or attempted to drive out imported -strike-breakers they were fired and State or Federal troops were called -in to protect the mills. They could not organize then, and they are not -organized now. - -My friend Martyn, who was intensely sympathetic toward them, was still -more sympathetic toward the men who were not so skillful, mere day -laborers who received from one dollar to one-sixty-five at a time when -two a day was too little to support any one. He grew melodramatic as he -told me where these men lived and how they lived, and finally took me in -order that I might see for myself. Afterward, in the course of my -reportorial work, I came upon some of these neighborhoods and -individuals, and since they are all a part of the great fortune-building -era, and illustrate how democracy works in America, and how some great -fortunes were built, I propose to put down here a few pictures of things -that I saw. Wages varied from one to one-sixty-five a day for the -commonest laborer, three and even four a day for the skilled worker. -Rents, or what the cheaper workers, who constituted by far the greater -number, were able to pay, varied from two-fifteen per week, or -eight-sixty per month, to four-seventy-two per week, or twenty per -month. - -And the type of places they could secure for this! I recall visiting a -two-room tenement in a court, the character of which first opened my -eyes to the type of home these workers endured. This court consisted of -four sides with an open space in the center. Three of these sides were -smoke-grimed wooden houses three stories in height; the fourth was an -ancient and odorous wooden stable, where the horses of a contractor were -kept. In the center of this court stood a circular wooden building or -lavatory with ten triangular compartments, each opening into one vault -or cesspool. Near this was one hydrant, the only water-supply for all -these homes or rooms. These two conveniences served twenty families, -Polish, Hungarian, Slavonic, Jewish, Negro, of from three to five people -each, living in the sixty-three rooms which made up the three grimy -sides above mentioned. There were twenty-seven children in these rooms, -for whom this court was their only playground. For twenty housewives -this was the only place where they could string their wash-lines. For -twenty tired, sweaty, unwashed husbands this was, aside from the saloon, -the only near and neighborly recreation and companionship center. Here -of a sweltering summer night, after playing cards and drinking beer, -they would frequently stretch themselves to sleep. - -But this was not all. As waste pipes were wanting in the houses, heavy -tubs of water had to be carried in and out, and this in a smoky town -where a double amount of washing and cleaning was necessary. When the -weather permitted, the heavy washes were done in the yard. Then the -pavement of this populous court, covered with tubs, wringers, clothes -baskets and pools of soapy water, made a poor playground for children. -In addition to this, these lavatories must be used, and in consequence a -situation was created which may be better imagined than explained. Many -of the front windows of these apartments looked down on this center, -which was only a few yards from the kitchen windows, creating a neat, -sanitary and uplifting condition. While usually only two families used -one of these compartments, in some other courts three or four families -were compelled to use one, giving rise to indifference and a sense of -irresponsibility for their condition. While all the streets had sewers -and by borough ordinance these outside vaults must be connected with -them, still most of them were flushed only by waste water, which flowed -directly into them from the yard faucet. When conditions became -unbearable the vaults were washed out with a hose attached to the -hydrant, but in winter, when there was danger of freezing, this was not -always possible. There was not one indoor closet in any of these courts. - -But to return to the apartment in question. The kitchen was steaming -with vapor from a big washtub set on a chair in the middle of the room. -The mother, who had carried the water in, was trying to wash and at the -same time keep the older of her two babies from tumbling into the tub of -scalding water that was standing on the floor. On one side of the room -was a huge puffy bed, with one feather tick to sleep on and another for -covering. Near the window was a sewing-machine, in a corner a melodeon, -and of course there was the inevitable cookstove, upon which was -simmering a pot of soup. To the left, in the second room, were one -boarder and the man of the house asleep. Two boarders, so I learned, -were at work, but at night would be home to sleep in the bed now -occupied by one boarder and the man of the house. The little family and -their boarders, taken to help out on the rent, worked and lived so in -order that Mr. Carnegie might give the world one or two extra libraries -with his name plastered on the front, and Mr. Frick a mansion on Fifth -Avenue. - -It was to Martyn and his interest that I owed still other views. He took -me one day to a boardinghouse in which lived twenty-four people, all in -two rooms, and yet, to my astonishment and confusion, it was not so bad -as that other court, so great apparently is the value of intimate human -contact. Few of the very poor day laborers, as Martyn explained to me, -who were young and unmarried, cared how they lived so long as they lived -cheaply and could save a little. This particular boardinghouse in -Homestead was in a court such as I have described, and consisted of two -rooms, one above the other, each measuring perhaps 12 × 20. In the -kitchen at the time was the wife of the boarding boss cooking dinner. -Along one side of the room was an oilcloth-covered table with a plank -bench on each side; above it was a rack holding a long row of white -cups, and a shelf with tin knives and forks. Near the up-to-date range, -the only real piece of furniture in the room, hung the buckets in which -all mill men carried their noon or midnight meals. A crowd of men were -lounging cheerfully about, talking, smoking and enjoying life, one of -them playing a concertina. They were making the most of a brief spell -before their meal and departure for work. In the room above, as the -landlord cheerfully showed us, were double iron bedsteads set close -together and on them comfortables neatly laid. - -In these two rooms lived, besides the boarding boss and his wife, both -stalwart Bulgarians, and their two babies, twenty men. They were those -Who handled steel billets and bars, unloaded and loaded trains, worked -in cinder pits, filled steel buckets with stock, and what not. They all -worked twelve hours a day, and their reward was this and what they could -save over and above it out of nine-sixty per week. Martyn said a good -thing about them at the time: “I don’t know how it is. I know these -people are exploited and misused. The mill-owners pay them the lowest -wages, the landlords exploit these boardinghouse keepers as well as -their boarders, and the community which they make by their work don’t -give a damn for them, and yet they are happy, and I’ll be hanged if they -don’t make me happy. It must be that just work is happiness,” and I -agreed with him. Plenty of work, something to do, the ability to avoid -the ennui of idleness and useless, pensive, futile thought! - -There was another side that I thought was a part of all this, and that -was the “vice” situation. There were so many girls who walked the -streets here, and back of the _Dispatch_ and postoffice buildings, as -well as in the streets ranged along the Monongahela below Smithfield -(Water, First and Second), were many houses of disrepute, as large and -flourishing an area as I had seen in any city. As I learned from the -political and police man, the police here as elsewhere “protected” vice, -or in other words preyed upon it. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXII - - -IN the meantime I was going about my general work, and an easy task it -proved. My city editor, cool, speculative, diplomatic soul, soon -instructed me as to the value of news and its limitations here. “We -don’t touch on labor conditions except through our labor man,” he told -me, “and he knows what to say. There’s nothing to be said about the rich -or religious in a derogatory sense: they’re all right in so far as we -know. We don’t touch on scandals in high life. The big steel men here -just about own the place, so we can’t. Some papers out West and down in -New York go in for sensationalism, but we don’t. I’d rather have some -simple little feature any time, a story about some old fellow with -eccentric habits, than any of these scandals or tragedies. Of course we -do cover them when we have to, but we have to be mighty careful what we -say.” - -So much for a free press in Pittsburgh, A.D. 1893! - -And I found that the city itself, possibly by reason of the recent -defeat administered to organized labor and the soft pedal of the -newspapers, presented a most quiescent and somnolent aspect. There was -little local news. Suicides, occasional drownings, a wedding or death in -high society, a brawl in a saloon, the enlargement of a steel plant, the -visit of a celebrity or the remarks of some local pastor, provided the -pabulum on which the local readers were fed. Sometimes an outside event, -such as the organization by General Coxey, of Canton, Ohio, of his -“hobo” army, at that time moving toward Washington to petition congress -against the doings of the trusts; or the dictatorial and impossible -doings of Grover Cleveland, opposition President to the dominant party -of the State; or the manner in which the moribund Democratic party of -this region was attempting to steal an office or share in the -spoils—these and the grand comments of gentlemen in high financial -positions here and elsewhere as to the outlook for prosperity in the -nation or the steel mills or the coal fields, occupied the best places -in the newspapers. For a great metropolis as daring, forceful, -economically and socially restless as this, it seemed unbelievable that -it could be so quiescent or say so little about the colossal ambitions -animating the men at the top. But when it came to labor or the unions, -their restlessness or unholy anarchistic demands, or the trashy views of -a third-rate preacher complaining of looseness in dress or morals, or an -actor voicing his views on art, or a politician commenting on some -unimportant phase of our life, it was a very different matter. These -papers were then free enough to say their say. - -I recall that Thomas B. Reed, then Speaker of the House, once passed -through the city and stopped off to visit some friendly steel magnate. I -was sent to interview him and obtain his views as to “General” Coxey’s -army, a band of poor mistaken theorists who imagined that by marching to -Washington and protesting to Congress they could compel a trust-dictated -American Senate and House to take cognizance of their woes. This able -statesman—and he was no fool, being at the time in the councils and -favor of the money power and looked upon as the probable Republican -Presidential nominee—pretended to me to believe that a vast national -menace lay in such a movement and protest. - -“Why, it’s the same as revolution!” he ranted, washing his face in his -suite at the Monongahela, his suspenders swaying loosely about his fat -thighs. “It’s an unheard-of proceeding. For a hundred years the American -people have had a fixed and constitutional and democratic method of -procedure. They have their county and State and national conventions, -and their power of instructing delegates to the same. They can write any -plank they wish into any party platform, and compel its enforcement by -their votes. Now comes along a man who finds something that doesn’t just -suit his views, and instead of waiting and appealing to the regular -party councils, he organizes an army and proceeds to march on -Washington.” - -“But he has been able to muster only three or four hundred men all -told,” I suggested mildly. “He doesn’t seem to be attracting many -followers.” - -“The number of his followers isn’t the point,” he insisted. “If one man -can gather an army of five hundred, another can gather an army of ten or -five hundred thousand. That means revolution.” - -“Yes,” I ventured. “But what about the thing of which they are -complaining?” - -“It doesn’t matter what their grievance is,” he said somewhat testily. -“This is a government of law and prescribed political procedure. Our -people must abide by that.” - -I was ready to agree, only I was thinking of the easy manner in which -delegates and elected representatives everywhere were ignoring the -interests if not the mandates of the body politic at large and listening -to the advice and needs of financiers and trust-builders. Already the -air was full of complaints against monopoly. Trusts and combinations of -every kind were being organized, and the people were being taxed -accordingly. All property, however come by, was sacred in America. The -least protest of the mass anywhere was revolutionary, or at least the -upwellings of worthless and never-to-be-countenanced malcontents. I -could not believe this. I firmly believed then, as I do now, that the -chains wherewith a rapidly developing financial oligarchy or autocracy -meant to bind a liberty-deluded mass were then and there being forged. I -felt then, as I do now, that the people of that day should have been -more alive to their interests, that they should have compelled, at -Washington or elsewhere, by peaceable political means if possible, by -dire and threatening uprisings if necessary, a more careful concern for -their interests than any congressman or senator or governor or -President, at that time or since, was giving them. As I talked to this -noble chairman of the House my heart was full of these sentiments, only -I did not deem it of any avail to argue with him. I was a mere cub -reporter and he was the Speaker of the House of Representatives, but I -had a keen contempt for the enthusiasm he manifested for law. When it -came to what the money barons wished, the manufacturers and trust -organizers hiding behind a huge and extortionate tariff wall, he was one -of their chief guards and political and congressional advocates. If you -doubt it look up his record. - -But it was owing to this very careful interpretation of what was and -what was not news that I experienced some of the most delightful -newspaper hours of my life. Large features being scarce, I was assigned -to do “city hall and police, Allegheny,” as the assignment book used to -read, and with this mild task ahead of me I was in the habit of crossing -the Allegheny River into the city of Allegheny, where, ensconced in a -chair in the reporters’ room of the combined city hall and central -police station or in the Carnegie Public Library over the way, or in the -cool, central, shaded court of the Allegheny General Hospital, with the -head interne of which I soon made friends, I waited for something to -turn up. As is usual with all city and police and hospital officials -everywhere, the hope of favorable and often manufactured publicity -animating them, I was received most cordially. All I had to do was to -announce that I was from the _Dispatch_ and assigned to this bailiwick, -and I was informed as to anything of importance that had come to the -surface during the last ten or twelve hours. If there was nothing—and -usually there was not—I sat about with several other reporters or with -the head interne of the hospital, or, having no especial inquiry to -make, I crossed the street to Squire Daniels, whose office was in the -tree-shaded square facing this civic center, and here (a squire being -the equivalent of a petty police magistrate), inquired if anything had -come to his notice. - -Squire Daniels, a large, bald, pink-faced individual of three -hundredweight, used of a sunny afternoon these warm Spring days to sit -out in front of his office, his chair tilted against his office wall or -a tree, and, with three or four cronies, retail the most delicious -stories of old-time political characters and incidents. He was a mine of -this sort of thing and an immense favorite in consequence with all the -newspaper men and politicians. I was introduced to him on my third or -fourth day in Allegheny as he was sitting out on his tilted chair, and -he surveyed me with a smile. - -“From the _Dispatch_, eh? Well, take a chair if you can find one; if you -can’t, sit on the curb or in the doorway. Many’s the man I seen from the -_Dispatch_ in my time. Your boss, Harry Gaither, used to come around -here before he got to be city editor. So did your Sunday man, Funger. -There ain’t much news I can give you, but whatever there is you’re -welcome to it. I always treat all the boys alike,” and he smiled. Then -he proceeded with his tale, something about an old alderman or -politician who had painted a pig once in order to bring it up to certain -prize specifications and so won the prize, only to be found out later -because the “specifications” wore off. He had such a zestful way of -telling his stories as to compel laughter. - -And then directly across the street to the east from the city hall was -the Allegheny Carnegie library, a very handsome building which -contained, in addition to the library, an auditorium in which had been -placed the usual “one of the largest” if not “the largest” pipe organ in -the world. This organ had one advantage: it was supplied with a paid -city organist, who on Sundays, Wednesdays and Saturdays entertained the -public with free recitals, and so capable was he that seats were at a -premium and standing-room only the rule unless one arrived far ahead of -time. This manifestation of interest on the part of the public pleased -me greatly and somehow qualified, if it did not atone for, Mr. -Carnegie’s indifference to the welfare of his employees. - -But I was most impressed with the forty or fifty thousand volumes so -conveniently arranged that one could walk from stack to stack, looking -at the labels and satisfying one’s interest by browsing in the books. -The place had most comfortable window-nooks and chairs between stacks -and in alcoves. One afternoon, having nothing else to do, I came here -and by the merest chance picked up a volume entitled _The Wild Ass’s -Skin_ by the writer who so fascinated Wandell—Honoré de Balzac. I -examined it curiously, reading a preface which shimmered with his -praise. He was the great master of France. His _Comédie Humaine_ covered -every aspect of the human welter. His interpretations of character were -exhaustive and exact. His backgrounds were abundant, picturesque, -gorgeous. In Paris his home had been turned into a museum, and contained -his effects as they were at the time of his death. - -I turned to the first page and began reading, and from then on until -dusk I sat in this charming alcove reading. A new and inviting door to -life had been suddenly thrown open to me. Here was one who saw, thought, -felt. Through him I saw a prospect so wide that it left me -breathless—all Paris, all France, all life through French eyes. Here was -one who had a tremendous and sensitive grasp of life, philosophic, -tolerant, patient, amused. At once I was personally identified with his -Raphael, his Rastignac, his Bixiou, his Bianchon. With Raphael I entered -the gaming-house in the Palais Royal, looked despairingly down into the -waters of the Seine from the Pont Royal, turned from it to the shop of -the dealer in antiques, was ignored by the perfect young lady before the -shop of the print-seller, attended the Taillefer banquet, suffered -horrors over the shrinking skin. The lady without a heart was all too -real. It was for me a literary revolution. Not only for the brilliant -and incisive manner with which Balzac grasped life and invented themes -whereby to present it, but for the fact that the types he handled with -most enthusiasm and skill—the brooding, seeking, ambitious beginner in -life’s social, political, artistic and commercial affairs (Rastignac, -Raphael, de Rubempre, Bianchon)—were, I thought, so much like myself. -Indeed, later taking up and consuming almost at a sitting _The Great Man -from the Provinces_, _Père Goriot_, _Cousin Pons_, _Cousin Bette_, it -was so easy to identify myself with the young and seeking aspirants. The -brilliant and intimate pictures of Parisian life, the exact flavor of -its politics, arts, sciences, religions, social goings to and fro -impressed me so as to accomplish for me what his imaginary magic skin -had done for his Raphael: transfer me bodily and without defect or lack -to the center as well as the circumference of the world which he was -describing. I knew his characters as well as he did, so magical was his -skill. His grand and somewhat pompous philosophical deductions, his easy -and offhand disposition of all manner of critical, social, political, -historical, religious problems, the manner in which he assumed as by -right of genius intimate and irrefutable knowledge of all subjects, -fascinated and captured me as the true method of the seer and the -genius. Oh, to possess an insight such as this! To know and be a part of -such a cosmos as Paris, to be able to go there, to work, to study, -suffer, rise, and even end in defeat if need be, so fascinatingly alive -were all the journeys of his puppets! What was Pittsburgh, what St. -Louis, what Chicago?—and yet, in spite of myself, while I adored his -Paris, still I was obtaining a new and more dramatic light on the world -in which I found myself. Pittsburgh was not Paris, America was not -France, but in truth they were something, and Pittsburgh at least had -aspects which somehow suggested Paris. These charming rivers, these many -little bridges, the sharp contrasts presented by the east end and the -mill regions, the huge industries here and their importance to the world -at large, impressed me more vividly than before. I was in a workaday, -begrimed, and yet vivid Paris. Taillefer, Nucingen, Valentin were no -different from some of the immense money magnets here, in their case, -luxury, power, at least the possibilities which they possessed. - -Coming out of the library this day, and day after day thereafter, the -while I rendered as little reportorial service as was consistent with -even a show of effort, I marveled at the physical similarity of the two -cities as I conceived it, at the chance for pictures here as well as -there. American pictures here, as opposed to French pictures there. And -all the while I was riding with Lucien to Paris, with his mistress, -courting Madame Nucingen with Rastignac, brooding over the horror of the -automatically contracting skin with Raphael, poring over his miseries -with Goriot, practicing the horrible art of prostitution with Madame -Marneffe. For a period of four or five months I ate, slept, dreamed, -lived him and his characters and his views and his city. I cannot -imagine a greater joy and inspiration than I had in Balzac these Spring -and Summer days in Pittsburgh. Idyllic days, dreamy days, poetic days, -wonderful days, the while I ostensibly did “police and city hall” in -Allegheny. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXIII - - -IT would be unfair to myself not to indicate that I rendered an adequate -return for the stipend paid me. As a matter of fact, owing to the -peculiar character of the local news conditions, as well as my own -creative if poorly equipped literary instincts at the time, I was able -to render just such service as my employers craved, and that with -scarcely a wrench to my mental ease. For what they craved, more than -news of a dramatic or disturbing character, was some sort of idle -feature stuff which they could use in place of news and still interest -their readers. The Spring time, Balzac, the very picturesque city -itself, my own idling and yet reflective disposition, caused me finally -to attempt a series of mood or word-pictures about the most trivial -matters—a summer storm, a spring day, a visit to a hospital, the death -of an old switchman’s dog, the arrival of the first mosquito—which gave -me my first taste of what it means to be a creative writer. - -The city editor asked me one day if I could not invent some kind of -feature, and I sat down and thought of one theme and another. Finally I -thought of the fly as a possible subject for an idle skit. Being young -and ambitious, and having just crawled out of a breeding-pit somewhere, -he alighted on the nearest fence or windowsill, brushed his head and -wings reflectively and meditated on the chances of a livelihood or a -career. What would be open to a young and ambitious fly in a world all -too crowded with flies? There were barns, of course, and kitchens and -horses and cows and pigs, but these fields were overrun, and this was a -sensitive and cleanly and meditative fly. Flying about here and there to -inspect the world, he encountered within a modest and respectable home a -shiny pate which seemed to offer a rather polished field of effort and -so on. - -This idle thing which took me not more than three-quarters of an hour to -write and which I was almost afraid to submit, produced a remarkable -change in the attitude of the office, as well as in my life and career. -We had at this time as assistant city editor a small, retiring, -sentimental soul, Jim Israels, who was one of the most gracious and -approachable and lovable men I have ever known. He it was to whom I -turned over my skit. He took it with an air of kindly consideration and -helpfulness. - -“Trying to help us out, are you?” he said with a smile, and then added -when I predicated its worthlessness: “Well, it’s not such an easy thing -to turn out that stuff. I hope it’s something the chief will like.” - -He took it and, as I noticed, for I hung about to see, read it at once, -and I saw him begin to smile and finally chuckle. - -“This thing’s all right,” he called. “You needn’t worry. Gaither’ll be -pleased with this, I know,” and he began to edit it. - -I went out to walk and think, for I had nothing to do except wander over -to Allegheny to find out if anything had turned up. - -When I returned at six I was greeted by my city editor with a smile and -told that if I would I could do that sort of thing as much as I liked. -“Try and get up something for tomorrow, will you?” I said I would try. -The next day, a Spring rain descending with wonderful clouds and a -magnificent electrical display, I described how the city, dry and smoky -and dirty, lay panting in the deadening heat and how out of the west -came, like an answer to a prayer, this sudden and soothing storm, -battalion upon battalion of huge clouds riven with great silvery flashes -of light, darkening the sun as they came; and how suddenly, while -shutters clapped and papers flew and office windows and doors had to be -closed and signs squeaked and swung and people everywhere ran to cover, -the thousands upon thousands who had been enduring the heat heaved a -sigh of gratitude. I described how the steel tenements, the homes of the -rich, the office buildings, the factories, the hospitals and jails -changed under these conditions. and then ventured to give specific -incidents and pictures of animals and men. - -This was received with congratulations, especially from the assistant -editor, who was more partial to anything sentimental than his chief. But -I, feeling that I had hit upon a vein of my own, was not inclined to -favor the moods of either but to write such things as appealed to me -most. This I did from day to day, wandering out into the country or into -strange neighborhoods for ideas and so varying my studies as my mood -dictated. I noticed, however, that my more serious attempts were not so -popular as the lighter and sillier things. This might have been a guide -to me, had I been so inclined, leading to an easy and popular success; -but by instinct and observation I was inclined to be interested in the -larger and more tragic phases of life. Mere humor, such as I could -achieve when I chose, seemed always to require for its foundation the -most trivial of incidents, whereas huge and massive conditions underlay -tragedy and all the more forceful aspects of life. - -But what pleased and surprised me was the manner in which these lighter -as well as the more serious things were received and the change they -made in my standing. Hitherto I was merely a newcomer being tested and -by no means secure in my hold on this position. Now, of a sudden, my -status was entirely changed. I was a feature man, one who had succeeded -where others apparently had failed, and so I was made more than welcome. -To my surprise, my city editor one day asked me whether I had had my -lunch. I gladly availed myself of a chance to talk to him, and he told -me a little something of local journalistic life, who the publisher of -this paper was, his politics and views. The assistant editor asked me to -dinner. The Sunday editor, the chief political reporter, the chief city -hall and police man grew friendly; I went to lunch or dinner with one or -the other, was taken to the Press Club after midnight, and occasionally -to a theater by the dramatic man. Finally I was asked to contribute -something to the Sunday papers, and later still asked to help the -dramatic man with criticisms. - -I was a little puzzled and made quite nervous though not vain by this -sudden change. The managing editor came to talk familiarly with me, and -after him the son of the publisher, fresh from a European trip. But when -he told me how interested he was in the kind of thing I was doing and -that he wished he “could write like that,” I remember feeling a little -envious of him, with his fine clothes and easy manner. An invitation to -dine at his home soothed me in no way. I never went. There was some talk -of sending me to report a proposed commercial conference (at Buffalo, I -believe), looking to the construction of a ship canal from Erie or -Buffalo to Pittsburgh, but it interested me not at all. I had no -interest in those things, really not in newspaper work, and yet I -scarcely knew what I wanted to do if not that. One thing is sure: I had -no commercial sense whereby I might have profited by all this. After the -second or third sketch had been published there was a decided list in my -direction, and I might have utilized my success. Instead, I merely -mooned and dreamed as before, reading at the Carnegie Library, going out -on assignments or writing one of these sketches and then going home -again or to the Press Club. I gathered all sorts of data as to the steel -magnates—Carnegie, Phipps and Frick especially—their homes, their clubs, -their local condescensions and superiorities. The people of Pittsburgh -were looked upon as vassals by some of these, and their interviews on -returning from the seashore or the mountains partook of the nature of a -royal return. - -I remember being sent once to the Duquesne Club to interview Andrew -Carnegie, fresh from his travels abroad, and being received by a -secretary who allowed me to stand in the back of a room in which Mr. -Carnegie, short, stocky, bandy-legged, a grand air of authority -investing him, was addressing the élite of the city on the subject of -America and its political needs. No note-taking was permitted, but I was -later handed a typewritten address to the people of Pittsburgh and told -that the _Dispatch_ would be allowed to publish that. And it did. I -smiled then, and I smile now, at the attitude of press, pulpit, -officials of this amazing city of steel and iron where one and all -seemed so genuflective and boot-licking, and yet seemed not to profit to -any great degree by the presence of these magnates, who were constantly -hinting at removing elsewhere unless they were treated thus and so—as -though the life of a great and forceful metropolis depended on them -alone. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXIV - - -IT was about this time that I began to establish cordial relations with -the short, broad-shouldered, sad-faced labor reporter whom I have -previously mentioned. At first he appeared to be a little shy of me, but -as time passed and I seemed to have established myself in the favor of -the paper, he became more friendly. He was really a radical at heart, -but did not dare let it be known here. Often of a morning he would spend -as much as two hours with me, discussing the nature of coal-mining and -steel-making, the difficulty of arranging wage conditions which would -satisfy all the men and not cause friction; but in the main he commented -on the shrewd and cunning way in which the bosses were more and more -overreaching their employees, preying upon their prejudices by religious -and political dodges, and at the same time misusing them shamefully -through the company store, the short ton, the cost of mining materials, -rent. At first, knowing nothing about the situation, I was inclined to -doubt whether he was as sound in these matters as he seemed to be. -Later, as I grew in personal knowledge, I thought he might be too -conservative, so painful did many of the things seem which I saw with my -own eyes and his aid. - - * * * * * - -About this time several things conspired to stir up my feelings in -regard to New York. The Pittsburgh papers gave great space to New York -events and affairs, much more than did most of the mid-Western papers. -There was a millionaire steel colony here which was trying to connect -itself with the so-called “Four Hundred” of New York, as well as the -royal social atmosphere of England and France; and the comings and -goings and doings of these people at Newport, New York, Bar Harbor, -London and Paris were fully chronicled. Occasionally I was sent to one -or another of these great homes to ask about the details of certain -marriages or proposed trips, and would find the people in the midst of -the most luxurious preparations. One night, for instance, I was sent to -ask a certain steel man about the rumored resumption or extension of -work in one of the mills. His house was but a dot on a great estate, the -reaching of which was very difficult. I found him about ten o’clock at -night stepping into a carriage to be driven to the local station, which -was at the foot of the grounds. Although I was going to the same station -in order to catch a local back to the city, he did not ask me to -accompany him. Instead he paused on the step of his carriage to say that -he could not say definitely whether the work would be done or not. He -was entirely surrounded by bags, a gun, a fishing basket and other -paraphernalia, after which of course a servant was looking. When he was -gone I walked along the same road to the same station, and saw him -standing there. Another man came up and greeted him. - -“Going down to New York, George?” he inquired. - -“No, to the Chesapeake. My lodge man tells me ducks are plentiful there -now, and I thought I’d run down and get a few.” - -The through train, which had been ordered to stop for him, rolled in and -he was gone. I waited for my smoky local, marveling at the comfort and -ease which had been already attained by a man of not more than -forty-five years of age. - -But there were other things which seemed always to talk to me of New -York, New York. I picked up a new weekly, the _Standard_, one evening, -and found a theatrical paper of the most pornographic and alluring -character which pretended to report with accuracy all the gayeties of -the stage, the clubs, the tenderloins or white-light districts, as well -as society of the racier and more spendthrift character. This paper -spoke only of pleasure: yacht parties, midnight suppers, dances, scenes -behind the stage and of blissful young stars of the theatrical, social -and money worlds. Here were ease and luxury! In New York, plainly, was -all this, and I might go there and by some fluke of chance taste of it. -I studied this paper by the hour, dreaming of all it suggested. - -And there was _Munsey’s_, the first and most successful of all the -ten-cent magazines then coming into existence and being fed to the -public by the ton. I saw it first piled in high stacks before a news and -book store in Pittsburgh. The size of the pile of magazines and the -price induced a cursory examination, although I had never even heard of -it before. Poor as it was intellectually—and it was poor—it contained an -entire section of highly-coated paper devoted to actresses, the stage -and scenes from plays, and still another carrying pictures of beauties -in society in different cities, and still another devoted to successful -men in Wall Street. It breathed mostly of New York, its social doings, -its art and literary colonies. It fired me with an ambition to see New -York. - -A third paper, _Town Topics_, was the best of all, a paper most -brilliantly edited by a man of exceptional literary skill (C. M. S. -McLellan). It related to exclusive society in New York, London and -Paris, the houses, palaces, yachts, restaurants and hotels, the goings -and comings of the owners; and although it really poked fun at all this -and other forms of existence elsewhere, still there was an element of -envy and delight in it also which fitted my mood. It gave one the -impression that there existed in New York, Newport and elsewhere (London -principally) a kind of Elysian realm in which forever basked the elect -of fortune. Here was neither want nor care. - -How I brooded over all this, the marriages and rumors of marriages, the -travels, engagements, feasts such as a score of facile novelists -subsequently succeeded in picturizing to the entertainment and -disturbance of rural America. For me this realm was all flowers, -sunshine, smart restaurants, glistering ballrooms, ease, comfort, beauty -arrayed as only enchantment or a modern newspaper Sunday supplement can -array it. And while I knew that back of it must be the hard contentions -and realities such as everywhere hold and characterize life, still I -didn’t know. In reading these papers I refused to allow myself to cut -through to the reality. Life must hold some such realm as this, and -spiritually I belonged to it. But I was already twenty-three, and what -had I accomplished? I wished most of all now to go to New York and enter -the realm pictured by these papers. Why not? I might bag an heiress or -capture fortune in some other way. I must save some money, I told -myself. Then, financially fortified, against starvation at least, I -might reconnoiter the great city and—who knows?—perhaps conquer. -Balzac’s heroes had seemed to do so, why not I? It is written of the -Dragon God of China that in the beginning it swallowed the world. - -And to cap it all about this time I had a letter from my good brother, -in which he asked me how long I would be “piking” about the West when I -ought to be in New York. I should come this summer, when New York was at -its best. He would show me Broadway, Manhattan Beach, a dozen worlds. He -would introduce me to some New York newspaper men who would introduce me -to the managers of the _World_ and the _Sun_. (The mere mention of these -papers, so overawed was I by the fames of Dana and Pulitzer, frightened -me.) I ought to be on a paper like the _Sun_, he said, since to him Dana -was the greatest editor in New York. I meditated over this, deciding -that I would go when I had more money. I then and there started a bank -account, putting in as much as ten or twelve dollars each week, and in a -month or two began to feel that sense of security which a little money -gives one. - -Another thing which had a strange psychologic effect on me at the time, -as indeed it appeared to have on most of the intelligentsia of America, -was the publication in _Harper’s_ this spring and summer of George Du -Maurier’s _Trilby_. I have often doubted the import of novel-writing in -general, but viewing the effect of that particular work on me as well as -on others one might as well doubt the import of power or fame or emotion -of any kind. The effect of this book was not so much one of great -reality and insight such as Balzac at times managed to convey, but -rather of an exotic mood or perfume of memory and romance conveyed by -some one who is in love with that memory and improvising upon it as -musicians do upon a theme. Instanter I saw Paris and Trilby and the Jew -with his marvelous eyes. Trilby being hypnotized and carried away from -Little Billee seemed to me then of the essence of great tragedy. I -myself fairly suffered, walking about and dreaming, the while I awaited -the one or two final portions. I was lost in the beauty of Paris, the -delight of studio life, and resented more than ever, as one might a -great deprivation, the need of living in a land where there was nothing -but work. - -And yet America and this city were fascinating enough to me. But because -of the preponderant influence of foreign letters on American life it -seemed that Paris and London must be so much better since every one -wrote about them. Like Balzac’s _Great Man from the Provinces_, this -book seemed to connect itself with my own life and the tragedy of not -having the means to marry at this time, and of being compelled to wander -about in this way unable to support a wife. At last I became so wrought -up that I was quite beside myself. I pictured myself as a Little Billee -who would eventually lose by poverty, as he by trickery, the thing I -most craved: my Western sweetheart. Meditating on this I vented some of -my misery in the form of sentimental vaporizings in my feature articles, -which were all liked well enough but which seemed merely to heighten my -misery. Finally, some sentimental letters being exchanged between myself -and my love, I felt an uncontrollable impulse to return and see her and -St. Louis before I went farther away perhaps never to return. The sense -of an irrecoverable past which had pervaded _Trilby_ had, I think, -something to do with this, so interfused and interfusing are all -thoughts and moods. At any rate, having by now considerable influence -with this paper, I proposed a short vacation, and the city editor, -wishing no doubt to propitiate me, suggested that the paper would be -glad to provide me with transportation both ways. So I made haste to -announce a grand return, not only to my intended but to McCord, Wood and -several others who were still in St. Louis. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXV - - -AS one looks back on youth so much of it appears ridiculous and -maundering and without an essential impulse or direction, and yet as I -look at life itself I am not sure but that indirection or unimportant -idlings are a part of life’s method. We often think we are doing some -vastly important thing, whereas in reality we are merely marking time. -At other times, when we appear to be marking time we are growing or -achieving at a great rate; and so it may have been with me. Instead of -pushing on to New York, I chose to return to St. Louis and grasp one -more hour of exquisite romance, drink one more cup of love. And whether -it profited me save as pleasure is profit I cannot tell. Only, may not -pleasure be the ultimate profit? - -This trip to St. Louis was for me a most pivotal and deranging thing, -probably a great mistake. At that time, of course, I could not see that. -Instead, I was completely lost in the grip of a passion that -subsequently proved detrimental or devastating. The reality which I was -seeking to establish was a temporary contact only. Any really beautiful -girl or any idyllic scene could have done for me all the things that -this particular girl and scene could do, only thus far I had chanced to -meet no other who could displace her. And in a way I knew this then, -only I realized also that one beautiful specimen was as good a key to -the lock of earthly delights as another.... Only there were so many -locks or chambers to which one key would fit, and how sad, in youth at -least, not to have all the locks, or at least a giant illusion as to -one! - - * * * * * - -This return began with a long hot trip in July to St. Louis, and then a -quick change in the Union Station there at evening which brought me by -midnight to the small town in the backwoods of Missouri, near which she -lived. It was hot. I recall the wide hot fields and small wooden towns -of Southern Ohio and Indiana and this Missouri landscape in the -night—the frogs, the katydids, the summer stars. I ached and yearned, -not so much over her as over youth and love and the evanescence of all -material fires. The spirit of youth cried and sang at the same time. - -The little cottages with their single yellow light shining in the fields -through which this dusty train ran! The perfumed winds! - -At last the train stopped and left me standing at midnight on a wooden -platform with no one to greet me. The train was late. A liveryman who -was supposed to look after me did not. At a lone window sat the -telegraph operator, station-master, baggage-agent all in one, a green -shield shading his eyes. Otherwise the station was bare and silent save -for the katydids in some weeds near at hand and some chirping -tree-toads. The agent told me that a hotel was a part of this station, -run by this railroad. Upstairs, over the baggage and other rooms, were a -few large barn-like sleeping chambers, carpetless, dusty, cindery, the -windows curtainless and broken in places, and save for some all but -slatless shutters unshielded from the world and the night. I placed a -chair against my door, my purse under my pillow, my bag near at hand. -During the night several long freights thundered by, their headlights -lighting the room; yet, lying on a mattress of straw and listening to -the frogs and katydids outside, I slept just the same. The next morning -I tied a handkerchief over my eyes and slept some more, arising about -ten to continue my journey. - -The home to which I was going was part of an old decayed village, once a -point on a trail or stage-coach route, once the prospective capital of -the State, but now nothing. A courthouse and some quaint tree-shaded -homes were all but lost or islanded in a sea of corn. I rode out a long, -hot, dusty road and finally up a long tree-shaded lane to its very end, -where I passed through a gate and at the far end came upon a worn, -faded, rain-rotted house facing a row of trees in a wide lawn. I felt -that never before had I been so impressed with a region and a home. It -was all so simple. The house, though old and decayed, was exquisite. The -old French windows—copied from where and by whom?—reaching to the grass; -the long graceful rooms, the cool hall, the veranda before it, so very -Southern in quality, the flowers about every window and door! I found a -home in which lived a poverty-stricken and yet spiritually impressive -patriarch, a mother who might serve as an American tradition so simple -and gracious was she, sisters and brothers who were reared in an -atmosphere which somehow induced a gracious, sympathetic idealism and -consideration. Poor as they were, they were the best of the families -here. The father had been an office-holder and one of the district -leaders in his day, and one of his sons still held an office. A -son-in-law was the district master of this entire congressional -district, which included seven counties, and could almost make or break -a congressman. All but three daughters were married, and I was engaged -to one of the remaining ones. Another, too beautiful and too hoyden to -think of any one in particular, was teaching school, or playing at it. A -farm of forty acres to the south of the house was tilled by the father -and two sons. - -Elsewhere I have indicated this atmosphere, but here I like to touch on -it again. We Americans have home traditions or ideals, created as much -by song and romance as anything else: _My Old Kentucky Home_, _Suwanee -River_. Despite any willing on my part, this home seemed to fulfill the -spirit of those songs. There was something so sadly romantic about it. -The shade of the great trees moved across the lawn in stately and -lengthening curves. A stream at the foot of the slope leading down from -the west side of the house dimpled and whimpered in the sun. Birds sang, -and there were golden bees about the flowers and wasps under the eaves -of the house. Hammocks of barrel—staves, and others of better texture, -were strung between the trees. In a nearby barn of quaint design were -several good horses, and there were cows in the field adjoining. Ducks -and geese solemnly padded to and fro between the house and the stream. -The air was redolent of corn, wheat, clover, timothy, flowers. - -To me it seemed that all the spirit of rural America, its idealism, its -dreams, the passion of a Brown, the courage and patience and sadness of -a Lincoln, the dreams and courage of a Lee or a Jackson, were all here. -The very soil smacked of American idealism and faith, a fixedness in -sentimental and purely imaginative American tradition, in which I, alas! -could not share. I was enraptured. Out of its charms and sentiments I -might have composed an elegy or an epic, but I could not believe that it -was more than a frail flower of romance. I had seen Pittsburgh.... I had -seen Lithuanians and Hungarians in their “courts” and hovels. I had seen -the girls of that city walking the streets at night. This profound faith -in God, in goodness, in virtue and duty that I saw here in no wise -squared with the craft, the cruelty, the brutality and the envy that I -saw everywhere else. These parents were gracious and God-fearing, but to -me they seemed asleep. They did not know life—could not. These boys and -girls, as I soon found, respected love and marriage and duty and other -things which the idealistic American still clings to. - -Outside was all this other life that I had seen of which apparently -these people knew nothing. They were as if suspended in dreams, lotus -eaters, and my beloved was lost in this same romance. I was thinking of -her beauty, her wealth of hair, the color of her cheeks, the beauty of -her figure, of what she might be to me. She might have been thinking of -the same thing, possibly more indirectly, but also she was thinking of -the dignity and duty and sanctity of marriage. For her, marriage and one -love were for life. For myself, whether I admitted it or not, love was a -thing much less stable. Indeed I was not thinking of marriage at all, -but rather whether I could be happy here and now, and how much I could -extract out of love. Or perhaps, to be just to myself, I was as much a -victim of passion and romance as she was, only to the two of us it did -not mean the same thing. Unconsciously I identified her with the beauty -of all I saw, and at the same time felt that it was all so different -from anything I knew or believed that I wondered how she would fit in -with the kind of life toward which I was moving. How overcome this -rigidity in duty and truth? - -Both of us being inflamed, it was the most difficult thing for me to -look upon her and not crave her physically, and, as she later admitted, -she felt the same yearning toward me. At the time, however, she was all -but horrified at a thought which ran counter to all the principles -impressed upon her since early youth. There was thus set up between us -in this delightful atmosphere a conflict between tradition and desire. -The hot faint breezes about the house and in the trees seemed to whisper -of secret and forbidden contact. The perfumes of the thickly grown beds -of flowers, the languorous sultry heat of the afternoon and night, the -ripening and blooming fields beyond, the drowsy, still, starry nights -with their hum of insects and croak of frogs and the purrs and whimpers -and barks of animals, seemed to call for but one thing. There was about -her an intense delight in living. No doubt she longed as much to be -seized as I to seize her, and yet there was a moral elusiveness which -added even more to the chase. I wished to take her then and not wait, -but the prejudices of a most careful rearing frightened and deterred -her. And yet I shall always feel that the impulse was better than the -forces which confuted and subsequently defeated it. For then was the -time to unite, not years later when, however much the economic and -social and religious conditions which are supposed to surround and -safeguard such unions had been fulfilled, my zest for her, and no doubt -hers in part for me, had worn away. - -Love should act in its heat, not when its bank account is heavy. The -chemic formula which works to reproduce the species, and the most vital -examples at that, is not concerned with the petty local and social -restraints which govern all this. Life if it wants anything wants -children, and healthy ones, and the weighing and binding rules which -govern their coming and training may easily become too restrictive. -Nature’s way is correct, her impulses sound. The delight of possessing -my fiancée then would have repaid her for her fears. and me for -ruthlessness if I had taken her. A clearer and a better grasp of life -would have been hers and mine. The coward sips little of life, the -strong man drinks deep. Old prejudices must always fall, and life must -always change. It is the law. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXVI - - -AND so this romance ended for me. At the time, of course, I did not know -it; on leaving her I was under the impression that I was more than ever -attached to her. In the face of this postponement, life took on a grayer -and more disappointing aspect. To be forced to wait when at that moment, -if ever, was the time! - -And yet I told myself that better days were surely in store. I would -return East and in some way place myself so that soon we might be -reunited. It was a figment of hope. By the time I was finally capable of -maintaining her economically, my earlier mood had changed. That hour -which we had known, or might have known, had gone forever. I had seen -more of life, more of other women, and although even then she was by no -means unattractive the original yearning had vanished. She was now but -one of many, and there were those who were younger and more -sophisticated, even more attractive. - -And yet, before I left her, what days! The sunshine! The lounging under -the trees! The drowsy summer heat! The wishing for what might not be! -Having decided that her wish was genuine and my impulse to comply with -it wise, I stood by it, wishing that it might be otherwise. I consoled -myself thinly with the thought that the future must bring us together, -and then left, journeying first to St. Louis and later to New York. For -while I was here that letter from my brother which urged me once more to -come to New York was forwarded to me. Just before leaving Pittsburgh I -had sent him a collection of those silly “features” I had been writing, -and he also was impressed. I must come to New York. Some metropolitan -paper was the place for me and my material. Anyhow, I would enjoy -visiting there in the summer time more than later. I wired him that I -would arrive at a certain time, and then set out for St. Louis and a -visit among my old newspaper friends there. - -I do not know how most people take return visits, but I have often noted -that it has only been as I have grown older and emotionally less mobile -that they have become less and less significant to me. In my earlier -years nothing could have been more poignant or more melancholy than my -thoughts on any of these occasions. Whenever I returned to any place in -which I had once lived and found things changed, as they always were, I -was fairly transfixed by the oppressive sense of the evanescence of -everything; a mood so hurtful and dark and yet with so rich if sullen a -luster that I was left wordless with pain. I was all but crucified at -realizing how unimportant I was, how nothing stayed but all changed. -Scenes passed, never to be recaptured. Moods came and friendships and -loves, and were gone forever. Life was perpetually moving on. The -beautiful pattern of which each of us, but more especially myself, was a -part, was changing from day to day, so that things which were an anchor -and a comfort and delight yesterday were tomorrow no more. And though -perhaps innately I desired change, or at least appropriate and agreeable -changes for myself, I did not wish this other, this exterior world to -shift, and that under my very eyes. - -The most haunting and disturbing thought always was that hourly I was -growing older. Life was so brief, such a very little cup at best, and so -soon, whatever its miserable amount or character, it would be gone. Some -had strength or capacity or looks or fortune, or all, at their command, -and then all the world was theirs to travel over and explore. Beauty and -ease were theirs, and love perhaps, and the companionship of interesting -and capable people; but I, poor waif, with no definite or arresting -skill of any kind, not even that of commerce, must go fumbling about -looking in upon life from the outside, as it were. Beautiful women, or -so I argued, were drawn to any but me. The great opportunities of the -day in trade and commerce were for any but me. I should never have a -fraction of the means to do as I wished or to share in the life that I -most craved. I was an Ishmael, a wanderer. - -In St. Louis I was oppressed beyond words. Of the newspaper men who had -been living on the same floor with me in Broadway there was not one -left. At the _Globe-Democrat_ already reigned a new city editor. My two -friends, Wood and McCord, while delighted to see me, told me of those -who had already gone and seemed immersed in many things that had arisen -since I had gone and were curious as to why I should have returned at -all. I hung about for a day or two, wondering all the while why I did -so, and then took the train going East. - -Of all my journeys thus far this to New York was the most impressive. It -took on at once, the moment I left St. Louis, the character of a great -adventure, for it was all unknown and enticing. For years my mind had -been centered on it. True to the law of gravitation, its pull was in -proportion to its ever increasing size. As a boy in Indiana, and later -in Chicago, I had read daily papers sent on from New York by my sister -E——, who lived there. In Chicago, owing to a rivalry which existed on -Chicago’s part (not on New York’s, I am sure), the papers were studded -with invidious comments which, like all poorly based criticism, only -served to emphasize the salient and impressive features of the greater -city. It had an elevated road that ran through its long streets on -stilts of steel and carried hundreds of thousands if not millions in the -miniature trains drawn by small engines. It was a long, heavily -populated island surrounded by great rivers, and was America’s ocean -door to Europe. It had the great Brooklyn Bridge, then unparalleled -anywhere, Wall Street, Jay Gould, Cornelius Vanderbilt, a huge company -of millionaires. It had Tammany Hall, the Statue of Liberty, unveiled -not so many years before (when I was a boy in Southern Indiana), Madison -Square Garden, the Metropolitan Opera House, the Horse Show. It was the -center and home of fashionable society, of all fixed and itinerant -actors and actresses. All great theatrical successes began there. Of -papers of largest circulation and greatest fame, it had nearly all. As -an ignorant understrapper I had often contended, and that noisily, with -various passing atoms of New York, as condescending as I was ignorant -and stubborn, as to the relative merits of New York and Chicago, New -York and St. Louis! There could not be so much difference! There were -many great things in these minor places! Some day, surely, Chicago would -outstrip New York!... Well, I lived to see many changes and things, but -not that. Instead I saw the great city grow and grow, until it stood -unrivaled, for size and force and wealth at least, anywhere. - -And now after all these tentative adventurings I was at last to enter -it. Although I was moderately well-placed in Pittsburgh and not coming -as a homeless, penniless seeker, still even now I was dreadfully afraid -of it—why, I cannot say. Perhaps it was because it was so immense and -mentally so much more commanding. Still I consoled myself with the -thought that this was only a visit and I was to have a chance to explore -it without feeling that I had to make my way then and there. - -I recall clearly the hot late afternoon in July when, after stopping off -at Pittsburgh to refresh myself and secure a change of clothing, I took -the train for New York. I noted with eager, hungry eyes a succession of -dreary forge and mining towns, miles of blazing coke ovens paralleling -the track and lighting these regions with a lurid glow after dusk, huge -dark hills occasionally twinkling with a feeble light or two. I spent a -half-wakeful night in the berth, dreaming and meditating in a nervous -chemic way. Before dawn I was awake and watching our passage through -Philadelphia, then Trenton, New Brunswick, Metuchen, Menlo Park, Rahway, -Elizabeth and Newark. Of all of these, save only Menlo Park, the home of -Edison, who was then invariably referred to by journalists and -paragraphers as “The Wizard of Menlo Park,” I knew nothing. - -As we neared New York at seven the sky was overcast, and at Newark it -began to drizzle. When I stepped down it was pouring, and there at the -end of a long train-shed, the immense steel and glass affair that once -stood in Jersey City opposite Cortlandt Street of New York, awaited my -fat and smiling brother, as sweet-faced and gay and hopeful as a child. -At once, he began as was his way, a patter of jests and inquiries as to -my trip, then led me to a ferry entrance, one of a half dozen in a row, -through which, as through the proscenium arch of a stage, I caught my -first glimpse of the great Hudson. A heavy mist of rain was suspended -over it through which might be seen dimly the walls of the great city -beyond. Puffing and squatty tugs, as graceful as fat ducks, attended by -overhanging plumes of smoke, chugged noisily in the foreground of water. -At the foot of the outline of the city beyond, only a few skyscrapers -having as yet appeared, lay a fringe of ships and docks and ferry -houses. No ferry boat being present, we needs must wait for one labeled -Desbrosses, as was labeled the slip in which we stood. - -But I was talking to my brother and learning of his life here and of -that of my sister E——, with whom he was living. The ferry boat -eventually came into the slip and discharged a large crowd, and we, -along with a vast company of commuters and travelers, entered it. Its -center, as I noted, was stuffed with vehicles of all sizes and -descriptions, those carrying light merchandise as well as others -carrying coal and stone and lumber and beer. I can recall to this hour -the odor of ammonia and saltpeter so characteristic of the ferry boats -and ferry houses, the crowd in the ferry house on the New York side -waiting to cross over once we arrived there, and the miserable little -horse-cars, then still trundling along West Street and between -Fourteenth and Broadway and the ferries, and Gansevoort Market. These -were drawn by one horse, and you deposited your fare yourself. - -And this in the city of elevated roads! - -But the car which we boarded had two horses. We traveled up West Street -from Desbrosses to Christopher and thence along that shabby old -thoroughfare to Sixth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, where we changed. At -first, aside from the sea and the boats and the sense of hugeness which -goes with immense populations everywhere, I was disappointed by the -seeming meanness of the streets. Many of them were still paved with -cobblestones, like the oldest parts of St. Louis and Pittsburgh. The -buildings, houses and stores alike, were for the most part of a shabby -red in color and varying in height from one to six stories, most of them -of an aged and contemptible appearance. This was, as I soon learned from -my serene and confident brother, an old and shabby portion of the city. -These horse-cars, in fact, were one of the jokes of the city, but they -added to its variety. “Don’t think that they haven’t anything else. This -is just the New York way. It has the new and the old mixed. Wait’ll -you’re here a little while. You’ll be like everybody else—there’ll be -just one place: New York.” - -And so it proved after a time. - -The truth was that the city then, for the first time in a half century -if not longer, was but beginning to emerge from a frightful period of -misrule at the hands of as evil a band of mercenaries as ever garroted a -body politic. It was still being looted and preyed upon in a most -shameful manner. Graft and vice stalked hand-in-hand. Although Tammany -Hall, the head and center of all the graft and robbery and vice and -crime protection, had been delivered a stunning blow by a reform wave -which had temporarily ousted it and placed reform officials over the -city, still the grip of that organization had not relaxed. The police -and all minor officials, as well as the workmen of all departments were -still, under the very noses of the newly elected officials, perhaps with -their aid, collecting graft and tribute. The Reverend Doctor Parkhurst -was preaching, like Savonarola, the destruction of these corruptions of -the city. - -When I arrived, the streets were not cleaned or well-lighted, their ways -not adequately protected or regulated as to traffic. Uncollected garbage -lay in piles, the while the city was paying enormous sums for its -collection; small and feeble gas-jets fluttered, when in other cities -the arc-light had for fifteen years been a commonplace. As we dragged -on, on this slow-moving car, the bells on the necks of the horses -tinkling rhythmically, I stared and commented. - -“Well, you can’t say that this is very much.” - -“My boy,” cautioned my good and cheerful brother, “you haven’t seen -anything yet. This is just an old part of New York. Wait’ll you see -Broadway and Fifth Avenue. We’re just coming this way because it’s the -quickest way home.” - -When we reached Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue I was very -differently impressed. We had traveled for a little way under an -elevated road over which trains thundered, and as we stepped down I -beheld an impressively wide thoroughfare, surging even at this hour in -the morning with people. Here was Macy’s, and northward stretched an -area which I was told was the shopping center of the vast metropolis: -Altman’s, Ehrich’s, O’Neill’s, Adams’, Simpson-Crawford’s, all huge -stores and all in a row lining the west side of the street. We made our -way across Fifteenth Street to the entrance of a narrow brownstone -apartment house and ascended two flights, waiting in a rather -poorly-lighted hall for an answer to our ring. The door was eventually -opened by my sister, whom I had not seen since my mother’s death four -years before. She had become stout. The trim beauty for which a very few -years before she had been notable had entirely disappeared. I was -disappointed at first, but was soon reassured and comforted by an -inherently kindly and genial disposition, which expressed itself in much -talking and laughing. - -“Why, Theodore, I’m so glad to see you! Take off your things. Did you -have a pleasant trip? George, here’s Theodore. This is my husband, -Theodore. Come on back, you and Paul,” so she rattled on. - -I studied her husband, whom I had not seen before, a dark and shrewd and -hawklike person who seemed to be always following me with his eyes. He -was an American of middle-Western extraction but with a Latin complexion -and Latin eyes. - -E——’s two children were brought forward, a boy and a girl four and two -years of age respectively. A breakfast table was waiting, at which Paul -had already seated himself. - -“Now, my boy,” he began, “this is where you eat real food once more. No -jerkwater hotels about this! No Pittsburgh newspaper restaurants about -this! Ah, look at the biscuit! Look at the biscuit!” as a maid brought -in a creamy plateful. “And here’s steak—steak and brown gravy and -biscuit! Steak and brown gravy and biscuit!” He rubbed his hands in joy. -“I’ll bet you haven’t seen anything like this since you left home. Ah, -good old steak and gravy!” His interest in food was always intense. - -“It’s been many a day since I’ve had such biscuit and gravy, E——,” I -observed. - -“‘It’s been many a day since I’ve had such biscuit and gravy, E——,’” -mocked my brother. - -“Get out, you!” chimed in my sister. “Just listen to him, the old -snooks! I can’t get him out of the kitchen, can I, George? He’s always -eating. ‘It’s been many a day——’ Ho! Ho!” - -“I thought you were dieting?” I inquired. - -“So I am, but you don’t expect me not to eat this morning, do you? I’m -doing this to welcome you.” - -“Some welcome!” I scoffed. - -Our chatter became more serious as the first glow of welcome wore off. -During it all I was never free of a sense of the hugeness and -strangeness of the city and the fact that at last I was here. And in -this immense and far-flung thing my sister had this minute nook. From -where I sat I could hear strange moanings and blowings which sounded -like foghorns. - -“What is that noise?” I finally asked, for to me it was eerie. - -“Boats—tugs and vessels in the harbor. There’s a fog on,” explained H——, -E——’s husband. - -I listened to the variety of sounds, some far, some near, some mellow, -some hoarse. “How far away are they?” - -“Anywhere from one to ten miles.” - -I stopped and listened again. Suddenly the full majesty of the sea -sweeping about this island at this point caught me. The entire city was -surrounded by water. Its great buildings and streets were all washed -about by that same sea-green salty flood which I had seen coming over -from Jersey City, and beyond were the miles and miles of dank salt -meadows, traversed by railroads. Huge liners from abroad were even now -making their way here. At its shores were ranged in rows great vessels -from Europe and all other parts of the world, all floating quietly upon -the bosom of this great river. There were tugs and small boats and -sailing vessels, and beyond all these, eastward, the silence, the -majesty, the deadly earnestness of the sea. - -“Do you ever think how wonderful it is to have the sea so close?” I -asked. - -“No, I can’t say that I do,” replied my brother-in-law. - -“Nor I,” said my sister. “You get used to all those things here, you -know.” - -“It’s wonderful, my boy,” said my brother, as usual helpfully -interested. He invariably seemed to approve of all my moods and -approaches to sentiment, and, like a mother who admires and spoils a -child, was anxious to encourage and indulge me. “Great subject, the -sea.” - -I could not help smiling, he was so naïf and simple and intellectually -innocent and sweet. - -“It’s a great city,” I said suddenly, the full import of it all sweeping -over me. “I think I’d like to live here.” - -“Didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I tell you!” exclaimed my brother gayly. -“They all fall for it! Now it’s the ocean vessels that get him. You take -my advice, my boy, and move down here. The quicker the better for you.” - -I replied that I might, and then tried to forget the vessels and their -sirens, but could not. The sea! The sea! And this great city! Never -before was I so anxious to explore a city, and never before so much in -awe of one either. It seemed so huge and powerful and terrible. There -was something about it which made me seem useless and trivial. Whatever -one might have been elsewhere, what could one be here? - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXVII - - -MY sister’s husband having something to do with this narrative, I will -touch upon his history as well as that of my sister. In her youth E—— -was one of the most attractive of the girls in our family. She never had -any intellectual or artistic interests of any kind; if she ever read a -book I never heard of it. But as for geniality, sympathy, industry, -fair-mindedness and an unchanging and self-sacrificing devotion to her -children, I have never known any one who could rival her. With no -adequate intellectual training, save such as is provided by the -impossible theories and teachings of the Catholic Church, she was but -thinly capacitated to make her way in the world. - -At eighteen or nineteen she had run away and gone to Chicago, where she -had eventually met H——, who had apparently fallen violently in love with -her. He was fifteen years older than she and moderately well versed in -the affairs of this world. At the time she met him he was the rather -successful manager of a wholesale drug company, reasonably well-placed -socially, married and the father of two or three children, the latter -all but grown to maturity. They eloped, going direct to New York. - -This was a great shock to my mother, who managed to conceal it from my -father although it was a three-days’ wonder in the journalistic or -scandal world of Chicago. Nothing more was heard of her for several -years, when a dangerous illness overtook my mother in Warsaw and E—— -came hurrying back for a few days’ visit. This was followed by another -silence, which was ended by the last illness and death of my mother in -Chicago, and she again appeared, a distrait and hysteric soul. I never -knew any one to yield more completely to her emotions than she did on -this occasion; she was almost fantastic in her grief. During all this -time she had been living in New York, and she and her husband were -supposed to be well off. Later, talking to Paul in St. Louis, I gathered -that H——, while not so successful since he had gone East, was not a bad -sort and that he had managed to connect himself with politics in some -way, and that they were living comfortably in Fifteenth Street. But when -I arrived there I found that they were by no means comfortable. The -Tammany administration, under which a year or two before he had held an -inspectorship of some kind, had been ended by the investigations of the -Lexow Committee, and he was now without work of any kind. Also, instead -of having proved a faithful and loving husband, he had long since -wearied of his wife and strayed elsewhere. Now, having fallen from his -success, he was tractable. Until the arrival of my brother Paul, who for -reasons of sympathy had agreed to share the expenses here during the -summer season, he had induced E—— to rent rooms, but for this summer -this had been given up. With the aid of my brother and some occasional -work H—— still did they were fairly comfortable. My sister if not quite -happy was still the devoted slave of her children and a most -pathetically dependent housewife. Whatever fires or vanities of her -youth had compelled her to her meteoric career, she had now settled down -and was content to live for her children. Her youth was over, love gone. -And yet she managed to convey an atmosphere of cheer and hopefulness. - -My brother Paul was in the best of spirits. He held a fair position as -an actor, being the star in a road comedy and planning to go out the -ensuing fall in a new one which he had written for himself and which -subsequently enjoyed many successful seasons on the road. In addition, -he was by way of becoming more and more popular nationally as a -song-writer. Also as I have said, he had connected himself as a third -partner in a song-publishing business which was to publish his own and -other songs, and this, despite its smallness, was showing unmistakable -signs of success. - -The first thing he did this morning was to invite me to come and see -this place, and about noon we walked across Fifteenth Street and up -Sixth Avenue, then the heart of the shopping district, to Twentieth -Street and thence east to between Fifth Avenue and Broadway, where in a -one-time fashionable but now decayed dwelling, given over to small -wholesale ventures, his concern was housed on the third floor. This was -almost the center of a world of smart shops near several great hotels: -the Continental, Bartholdi, and the Fifth Avenue. Next door were Lord & -Taylor. Below this, on the next corner, at Nineteenth and Broadway, was -the Gorham Company, and below that the Ditson Company, a great music -house, Arnold, Constable & Company and others. There were excellent -restaurants and office buildings crowding out an older world of fashion. -I remember being impressed with the great number of severe brownstone -houses with their wide flights of stone steps, conservatories and -porte-cochères. Fifth Avenue and Twentieth Street were filled with -handsome victorias and coaches. - -Going into my brother’s office I saw a sign on the door which read: -_Howley, Haviland & Company_, and underneath, _Wing & Sons, Pianos_. - -“Are you the agent for a piano?” I inquired. - -“Huh-uh. They let us have a practice piano in return for that sign.” - -When I met his partners I was impressed with the probability of success -which they seemed to suggest and which came true. The senior member, -Howley, was a young, small, goggle-eyed hunchback with a mouthful of -protruding teeth, and hair as black as a crow, and piercing eyes. He had -long thin arms and legs which, because of his back, made him into a kind -of Spider of a man, and he went about spider-wise, laughing and talking, -yet always with a heavy “Scutch” burr. - -“We’re joost aboot gettin’ un our feet here nu,” he said to me, his -queer twisted face screwed up into a grimace of satisfaction and pride, -“end we hevn’t ez yet s’mutch to show ye. But wuth a lettle time I’m -a-theenkin’ ye’ll be seem’ theengs a-lookin’ a leetle bether.” - -I laughed. “Say,” I said to Paul when Howley had gone about some work, -“how could you fail with him around? He’s as smart as a whip, and -they’re all good luck anyhow.” I was referring to the superstition which -counts all hunchbacks as lucky to others. - -“Yes,” said my brother. “I know they’re lucky, and he’s as straight and -honest as they make ’em. I’ll always get a square deal here,” and then -he began to tell me how his old publisher, by whom Howley had been -employed, had “trimmed” him, and how this youth had put him wise. Then -and there had begun this friendship which had resulted in this -partnership. - -The space this firm occupied was merely one square room, twenty by -twenty, and in one corner of this was placed the free “tryout” piano. In -another, between two windows, two tables stood back to back, piled high -with correspondence. A longer table was along one side of a wall and was -filled with published music, which was being wrapped and shipped. On the -walls were some wooden racks or bins containing “stock,” the few songs -thus far published. Although only a year old, this firm already had -several songs which were beginning to attract attention, one of them -entitled _On the Sidewalks of New York_. By the following summer this -song was being sung and played all over the country and in England, an -international “hit.” This office, in this very busy center, cost them -only twenty dollars a month, and their “overhead expeenses,” as Howley -pronounced it, were “juist nexta nothin’.” I could see that my good -brother was in competent hands for once. - -And the second partner, who arrived just as we were sitting down at a -small table in a restaurant nearby for lunch, was an equally interesting -youth whose personality seemed to spell success. At this time he was -still connected as “head of stock,” whatever that may mean, with that -large wholesale and retail music house the Ditson Company, at Broadway -and Eighteenth Street. Although a third partner in this new concern, he -had not yet resigned his connection with the other and was using it, -secretly of course, to aid him and his firm in disposing of some of -their wares. He was quite young, not more than twenty-seven, very quick -and alert in manner, very short of speech, avid and handsome, a most -attractive and clean-looking man. He shot out questions and replies as -one might bullets out of a gun. “Didy’seeDrake?” “What ‘d’esay?” -“AnynewsfromBaker?” “Thedevily’say!” “Y’ don’tmeanit!” - -I was moved to study him with the greatest care. Out of many anywhere, I -told myself, I would have selected him as a pushing and promising and -very self-centered person, but by no means disagreeable. Speaking of him -later, as well as of Howley, my brother once said: “Y’see, Thee, New -York’s the only place you could do a thing like this. This is the only -place you could get fellows with their experience. Howley used to be -with my old publisher, Woodward, and he’s the one that put me wise to -the fact that Woodward was trimming me. And Haviland was a friend of -his, working for Ditson.” - -From the first, I had the feeling that this firm of which my brother was -a part would certainly be successful. There was something about it, a -spirit of victory and health and joy in work and life, which convinced -me that these three would make a go of it. I could see them ending in -wealth, as they did before disasters of their own invention overtook -them. But that was still years away and after they had at least eaten of -the fruits of victory. - -As a part of this my initiation into the wonders of the city Paul led me -into what he insisted was one of the wealthiest and most ornate of the -Roman Churches in New York, St. Francis Xavier in Sixteenth Street, from -which he was subsequently buried. Standing in this, he told me of some -Jesuit priest there, a friend of his, who was comfortably berthed and “a -good sport into the bargain, Thee, a bird.” However, having had my fill -of Catholicism and its ways, I was not so much impressed, either by his -friend or his character. But Sixth Avenue in this sunshine did impress -me. It was the crowded center of nearly all the great stores, at least -five, each a block in length, standing in one immense line on one side -of the street. The carriages! The well-dressed people! Paul pointed out -to me the windows of Altman’s on the west side of the street at -Eighteenth and said it was the most exclusive store in America, that -Marshall Field & Company of Chicago was as nothing, and I had the -feeling from merely looking at it that this was true; it was so -well-arranged and spacious. Its windows, in which selected materials -were gracefully draped and contrasted, bore out this impression. There -were many vehicles of the better sort constantly pausing at its doors to -put down most carefully dressed women and girls. I marveled at the size -and wealth of a city which could support so many great stores all in a -row. - -Because of the heat my brother insisted upon calling a hansom cab to -take us to Fourteenth and Broadway, where we were to begin our northward -journey. Just south of Union Square at Thirteenth Street was the old -Star Theater of which he said: “There you have it. That used to be -Lester Wallack’s Theater twenty years ago—the great Lester Wallack. -There was an actor, my boy, a great actor! They talk about Mansfield and -Barrett and Irving and Willard and all these other people today. All -good, my boy, all good, but not in it with him, Theodore, not in it. -This man was a genius. And he packed ’em too. Many a time I’ve passed -this place when you couldn’t get by the door for the crowd.” And he -proceeded to relate that in the old days, when he first came to New -York, all the best part of the theatrical district was still about and -below Union Square—Niblo’s, the old London on the Bowery, and what not. - -I listened. What had been had been. It might all have been very -wonderful but it was so no longer, all done and gone. I was new and -strange, and wished to see only what was new and wonderful now. The sun -was bright on Union Square now. This was a newer world in which we were -living, he and I, this day. The newest wave of the sea invariably -obliterates the one that has gone before. And that was only twenty years -ago and it has all changed again. - -North of this was the newer Broadway—the Broadway of the current actor, -manager and the best theaters—and fresh, smart, gay, pruned of almost -every trace of poverty or care. Tiffany’s was at Fifteenth and Broadway, -its windows glittering with jewels; Brentano’s, the booksellers, were at -Sixteenth on the west side of Union Square; and Sarony, the -photographer, was between Fifteenth and Sixteenth, a great gold replica -of his signature indicating his shop. The Century Company, to which my -brother called my attention as an institution I might some day be -connected with, so great was his optimism and faith in me, stood on the -north side of Union Square at Seventeenth. At Nineteenth and Broadway -were the Gorham Company, and Arnold, Constable & Company. At Twentieth -was Lord & Taylor’s great store, adjoining the old building in which was -housed my brother’s firm. Also, at this street, stood the old -Continental Hotel, a popular and excellent restaurant occupying a large -portion of its lower floor which became a part of my daily life later. -At Twenty-first Street was then standing one of the three great stores -of Park & Tilford. At Twenty-third, on the east side of the street, -facing Madison Square, was another successful hotel, the Bartholdi, and -opposite it, on the west side, was the site of the Flatiron Building. - -Across Madison Square, its delicate golden-brown tower soaring aloft and -alone, no huge buildings then as now to dwarf it, stood Madison Square -Garden, Diana, her arrow pointed to the wind, giving naked chase to a -mythic stag, her mythic dogs at her heels, high in the blue air above. -The west side of Broadway, between Twenty-third and Twenty-fourth, was -occupied by the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the home, as my brother was quick to -inform me, of Senator Platt, the Republican boss of the State, who with -Croker divided the political control of the State and who here held open -court, the famous “Amen Corner,” where his political henchmen were -allowed to ratify all his suggestions. It was somewhere within. Between -Twenty-fifth and Twenty-sixth on the same side of the street were two -more hotels, the Albemarle and the Hoffman House. Just north of this, at -Twenty-seventh and Broadway, on the east side of the street and running -through to Fifth Avenue, was Delmonico’s. Into this we now ventured, my -good brother hailing genially some acquaintance who happened to be in -charge of the floor at the moment. The waiter who served us greeted him -familiarly. I stared in awe at its pretentious and ornate furniture, its -noble waiters and the something about it which seemed to speak of wealth -and power. How easily five cents crooks the knee to five million! - -A block or two north of this was the old Fifth Avenue Theater, then a -theater of the first class but later devoted to vaudeville. At -Twenty-ninth was the Gilsey House, one of the earliest homes of this my -Rialto-loving brother. At Thirtieth and Broadway, on the east side, -stood Palmer’s Theater, famous for its musical and beauty shows. At -Thirty-first and Broadway, on the west side of the street, stood -Augustus Daly’s famous playhouse, its façade suggestive of older homes -remodeled to this new use. And already it was coming to be _passé_. -Weber & Fields’ had not even appeared. And in my short span it appeared -and disappeared and became a memory! Between Twenty-eighth and -Thirty-fourth were several more important hotels: The Grand, The -Imperial; and between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth streets, in Sixth -Avenue, was the old Manhattan Theater, at that time the home of many -successes, but also, like Daly’s, drawing to the end of a successful -career. - -In Thirty-fourth, west of Broadway (later a part of the Macy store -site), was Koster & Bial’s Music Hall, managed by a man who subsequently -was to become widely known but who was then only beginning to rise, -Oscar Hammerstein. And around the corner, in Broadway at Thirty-fifth, -was a very successful theater, the Herald Square, facing the unique and -beautiful _Herald_ building. Beyond that in Thirty-fifth, not many feet -east of Sixth Avenue, was the Garrick, or the Lyceum as it was then -known, managed by Daniel Frohman. Above these, at Thirty-sixth, on the -west side, was the Marlborough, at which later, in his heyday, my -brother chose to live. At Thirty-eighth, on the southeast corner, stood -the popular and exclusive Normandie, one of the newer hotels, and at the -northeast corner of this same intersection, the new and imposing -Knickerbocker Theater. At Thirty-ninth was the far-famed Casino, with -its choruses of girls, the Mecca of all night-loving Johnnies and -rowdies; and between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth, on the west side, the -world-famed Metropolitan Opera House, still unchanged save for a -restaurant in its northern corner. At Fortieth over the way stood the -Empire Theater, with its stock company, which included the Drews, -Favershams and what not; and in this same block was the famous Browne’s -Chop House, a resort for Thespians and night-lovers. At Forty-second and -Broadway, the end of all Rialto-dom for my brother, and from which he -turned sadly and said: “Well, here’s the end,” stood that Mecca of -Meccas, the new Hotel Metropole, with its restaurant opening on three -streets, its leathern seats backed to its walls, its high open windows, -an air of super-wisdom as to all matters pertaining to sport and the -theater pervading it. This indeed was the extreme northern limit of the -white-light district, and here we paused for a drink and to see and be -seen. - -How well I remember it all—the sense of ease and well-being that was -over this place, and over all Broadway; the loud clothes, the bright -straw hats, the canes, the diamonds, the hot socks, the air of security -and well-being, assumed by those who had won an all-too-brief hour in -that pretty, petty world of make-believe and pleasure and fame. And here -my good brother was at his best. It was “Paul” here and “Paul” there. -Already known for several songs of great fame, as well as for his stage -work and genial personality, he was welcomed everywhere. - -And then, ambling down the street in the comforting shade of its west -wall, what amazing personalities, male and female, and so very many of -them, pausing to take him by the hand, slap him on the back, pluck -familiarly at his coat lapel and pour into his ear or his capacious -bosom magnificent tales of successes, of great shows, of fights and -deaths and love affairs and tricks and scandals. And all the time my -good brother smiled, laughed, sympathized. There were moments with -prizefighters, with long-haired Thespians down on their luck and looking -for a dime or a dollar, and bright petty upstarts of the vaudeville -world. Retired miners and ranchmen out of the West, here to live and -recount their tales of hardships endured, battles won, or of marvelous -winnings at cards, trickeries in racing, prizefighting and what not, now -ambled by or stopped and exchanged news or stories. There was talk of -what “dogs” or “swine” some people were, what liars, scoundrels, -ingrates; as well as the magnificent, magnanimous, “God’s own salt” that -others were. The oaths! The stories of women! My brother seemed to know -them all. I was amazed. What a genial, happy, well-thought-of successful -man! - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXVIII - - -ALL this while of course there had been much talk as to the character of -those we met, the wealth and fashion that purchased at Tiffany’s or at -Brentano’s, those who loafed at the Fifth Avenue, the Hoffman House, the -Gilsey, the Normandie. My brother had friends in many of these hotels -and bars. A friend of his was the editor of the _Standard_, Roland Burke -Hennessy, and he would take me up and introduce me. Another was the -political or sporting man of the _Sun_ or _World_ or _Herald_. Here came -one who was the manager of the Casino or the Gilsey! One was a writer, a -playwright, a song-writer or a poet! A man of facile friendships, my -brother! As we passed Twenty-third Street he made it plain that here was -a street which had recently begun to replace the older and more colossal -Sixth Avenue, some of the newer and much smarter stores—Best’s, Le -Boutillier’s, McCreery’s, Stern Brothers’—having built here. - -“This is really the smart street now, Thee, this and a part of Fifth -Avenue about Twenty-third. The really exclusive stores are coming in -here. If you ever work in New York, as you will, you’ll want to know -about these things. You’ll see more smart women in here than in any -other shopping street,” and he called my attention to the lines of -lacquered and be-furred and beplushed carriages, the harness of the -horses aglitter with nickel and gilt. - -Passing Daly’s he said: “Now here, my boy, is a manager. He makes -actors, he don’t hire them. He takes ’em and trains ’em. All these young -fellows and girls who are making a stir,” and he named a dozen, among -whom I noted such names as those of Maude Adams, Willie Collier, Drew -and Faversham, “worked for him. And he don’t allow any nonsense. There’s -none of that upstage stuff with him, you bet. When you work for him -you’re just an ordinary employee and you do what he tells you, not the -way you think you ought to do. I’ve watched him rehearse, and I know, -and all these fellows tell the same story about him. But he’s a -gentleman, my boy, and a manager. Everybody knows that when he finishes -with a man or a woman they can act.” - -At Thirty-third Street he waved his hand in the direction of the -Waldorf, which was then but the half of its later size. - -“Down there’s the Waldorf. That’s the place. That’s the last word for -the rich. That’s where they give the biggest balls and dinners, there -and at Delmonico’s and the Netherland.” And after a pause he continued: -“Some time you ought to write about these things, Thee. They’re the -limit for extravagance and show. The people out West don’t know yet -what’s going on, but the rich are getting control. They’ll own the -country pretty soon. A writer like you could make ’em see that. You -ought to show up some of these things so they’d know.” - -Youthful, inexperienced, unlettered, the whole scroll of this earthly -wallow a mere guess, I accepted that as an important challenge. Maybe it -ought to be shown up.... As though picturing or indicating life has ever -yet changed it! But he, the genial and hopeful, always fancied that it -might be so—and I with him. - -When he left me this day at three or four, his interest ended because -the wonders of Broadway had been exhausted, I found myself with all the -great strange city still to be explored. Making inquiry as to directions -and distances, I soon found myself in Fifth Avenue at Forty-second -Street. Here, represented by mansions at least, was that agglomeration -of wealth which, as I then imagined, solved all earthly ills. Beauty was -here, of course, and ease and dignity and security, that most wonderful -and elusive thing in life. I saw, I admired, and I resented, being -myself poor and seeking. - -Fifth Avenue then lacked a few of the buildings which since have added -somewhat to its impressiveness—the Public Library, the Metropolitan -Museum façade at Eighty-second Street, as well as most of the great -houses which now face Central Park north of Fifty-ninth Street. But in -their place was something that has since been lost and never will be -again: a line of quiet and unpretentious brownstone residences which, -crowded together on spaces of land no wider than twenty-five feet, still -had about them an air of exclusiveness which caused one to hesitate and -take note. Between Forty-second and Fifty-ninth Street there was -scarcely a suggestion of that coming invasion of trade which -subsequently, in a period of less than twenty years, changed its -character completely. Instead there were clubs, residences, huge quiet -and graceful hotels such as the old Plaza and the Windsor, long since -destroyed, and the very graceful Cathedral of St. Patrick. All the cross -streets in this area were lined uniformly with brownstone or red brick -houses of the same height and general appearance, a high flight of steps -leading to the front door, a side gate and door for servants under the -steps. Nearly all of these houses were closely boarded up for the -summer. There was scarcely a trace of life anywhere save here or there -where a servant lounged idly at a side gate or on the front steps -talking to a policeman or a cabman. - -At Fiftieth Street the great church on its platform was as empty as a -drum. At Fifty-ninth, where stood the Savoy, the Plaza, and the -Netherland, as well as the great home of Cornelius Vanderbilt, it was -all bare as a desert. Lonely handsome cabs plupped dismally to and fro, -and the father or mother of the present Fifth Avenue bus, an overgrown -closed carriage, rolled lonesomely between Washington Square and One -Hundred and Tenth Street. Central Park had most of the lovely walks and -lakes which grace it today, but no distant skyline. Central Park West as -such had not even appeared. That huge wall that breaks the western sky -now was wanting. Along this dismal thoroughfare there trundled a dismal -yellow horse-car trailing up a cobble-paved street bare of anything save -a hotel or two and some squatter shanties on rocks, with their attendant -goats. - -But for all that, keeping on as far north as the Museum, I was steadily -more and more impressed. It was not beautiful, but perhaps, as I -thought, it did not need to be. The congestion of the great city and the -power of a number of great names were sufficient to excuse it. And ever -and anon would come a something—the Gould home at Sixty-first, the -Havemeyer and Astor residences at Sixty-sixth and Sixty-eighth, the -Lenox Library at Seventy-second—which redeemed it. Even the old red -brick and white stone Museum, now but the central core of the much -larger building, with its attendant obelisk, had charm and dignity. So -far I wandered, then took the bus and returned to my sister’s apartment -in Fifteenth Street. - - * * * * * - -If I have presented all this mildly it was by no means a mild experience -for me. Sensitive to the brevity of life and what one may do in a given -span, vastly interested in the city itself, I was swiftly being -hypnotized by a charm more elusive than real, more of the mind than the -eye perhaps, which seized upon and held me so tensely nevertheless that -soon I was quite unable to judge sanely of all this and saw its -commonplace and even mean face in a most roseate light. The beauty, the -hope, the possibilities that were here! It was not a handsome city. As I -look back on it now, there was much that was gross and soggy and even -repulsive about it. It had too many hard and treeless avenues and cross -streets, bare of anything save stone walls and stone or cobble pavements -and wretched iron lamp-posts. There were regions that were painfully -crowded with poverty, dirt, despair. The buildings were too uniformly -low, compact, squeezed. Outside the exclusive residence and commercial -areas there was no sense of length or space. - -But having seen Broadway and this barren section of Fifth Avenue, I -could not think of it in a hostile way, the magnetism of large bodies -over small ones holding me. Its barrenness did not now appall me, nor -its lack of beauty irritate. There was something else here, a quality of -life and zest and security and ease for some, cheek by jowl with poverty -and longing and sacrifice, which gives to life everywhere its keenest -most pathetic edge. Here was none of that eager clattering snap so -characteristic of many of our Western cities, which, while it arrests at -first, eventually palls. No city that I had ever seen had exactly what -this had. As a boy, of course, I had invested Chicago with immense color -and force, and it was there, ignorant, American, semi-conscious, -seeking, inspiring. But New York was entirely different. It had the -feeling of gross and blissful and parading self-indulgence. It was as if -self-indulgence whispered to you that here was its true home; as if, for -the most part, it was here secure. Life here was harder perhaps, for -some more aware, more cynical and ruthless and brazen and shameless, and -yet more alluring for these very reasons. Wherever one turned one felt a -consciousness of ease and gluttony, indifference to ideals, however low -or high, and coupled with a sense of power that had found itself and was -not easily to be dislodged, of virtue that has little idealism and is -willing to yield for a price. Here, as one could feel, were huge dreams -and lusts and vanities being gratified hourly. I wanted to know the -worst and the best of it. - -During the few days that I was permitted to remain here, I certainly had -an excellent sip. My brother, while associated with the other two as a -partner, was so small a factor so far as his firm’s internal economy was -concerned that he was not needed as more than a hand-shaker on Broadway, -one who went about among vaudeville and stage singers and actors and -song-composers and advertised by his agreeable personality the existence -of his firm and its value to them. And it was that quality of geniality -in him which so speedily caused his firm to grow and prosper. Indeed he -was its very breath and life. I always think of him as idling along -Broadway in the summer time, seeing men and women who could sing songs -and writers who could write them, and inducing them by the compelling -charm of his personality, to resort to his firm. He had a way with -people, affectionate, reassuring, intimate. He was a magnet which drew -the young and the old, the sophisticated and the unsophisticated, to his -house Gradually, and because of him and his fame, it prospered mightily, -and yet I doubt if ever his partners understood how much he meant to -them. His house was young and unimportant, yet within a year or two it -had forged its way to the front, and this was due to him and none other. -The rest was merely fair commercial management of what he provided in -great abundance. - -While he waited for his regular theatrical season to resume, he was most -excellently prepared to entertain one who might be interested to see -Broadway. This night, after dinner at my sister’s, he said, “Come on, -sport,” and together, after promising faithfully to be back by midnight, -we ambled forth, strolling across Fifteenth Street to Sixth Avenue and -then taking a car to Thirty-third Street, the real center of all things -theatrical at the time. Here, at Broadway and Thirty-fifth, opposite the -_Herald_ building and the Herald Square Theater, stood the Hotel Aulic, -a popular rendezvous for actors and singers, with whom my brother was -most concerned. And here they were in great number, the sidewalks on two -sides of the building alive with them, a world of glittering, spinning -flies. I recall the agreeable summer evening air, the bright comforting -lights, the open doors and windows, the showy clothes, the laughter, the -jesting, the expectorating, the back-slapping geniality. It was -wonderful, the spirit and the sense of happiness and ease. Men do at -times attain to happiness, paradise even, in this shabby, noisome, -worthless, evanescent, make-believe world. I have seen it with mine own -eyes. - -And here, as in that more pretentious institution at Forty-second -Street, the Metropole, my brother was at ease. His was by no means the -trade way of a drummer but rather that of one who, like these others, -was merely up and down the street seeing what he might. He drank, told -idle tales, jested unwearyingly. But all the while, as he told me later, -he was really looking for certain individuals who could sing or play and -whom in this roundabout and casual way he might interest in the -particular song or instrumental composition he was then furthering. “And -you never can tell,” he said. “You might run into some fellow who would -be just the one to write a song or sing one for you.” - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXIX - - -THE next day I was left to myself, and visited City Hall, Brooklyn -Bridge, Wall Street and the financial and commercial sections. - -I, having no skill for making money and intensely hungry for the things -that money would buy, stared at Wall Street, a kind of cloudy Olympus in -which foregathered all the gods of finance, with the eyes of one who -hopes to extract something by mere observation. Physically it was not -then, as it is today, the center of a sky-crowded world. There were few -if any high buildings below City Hall, few higher than ten stories. Wall -Street was curved, low-fronted, like Oxford Street in London. It began, -as some one had already pointed out, at a graveyard and ended at a -river. The house of J. P. Morgan was just then being assailed for its -connection with a government gold bond issue. The offices of Russell -Sage and George Gould (the son), as well as those of the Standard Oil -Company below Wall in Broadway, and those of a whole company of now -forgotten magnates, could have been pointed out by any messenger boy, -postman or policeman. What impressed me was that the street was vibrant -with something which, though far from pleasing, craft, greed, cunning, -niggardliness, ruthlessness, a smart swaggering ease on the part of -some, and hopeless, bedraggled or beaten aspect on the part of others, -held my interest as might a tiger or a snake. I had never seen such a -world. It was so busy and paper-bestrewn, messenger and broker -bestridden, as to make one who had nothing to do there feel dull and -commonplace. One thought only of millions made in stocks over night, of -yachts, orgies, travels, fames and what not else. Since that time Wall -Street has become much tamer, less significant, but then one had a -feeling that if only one had a tip or a little skill one might become -rich; or that, on the other hand, one might be torn to bits and that -here was no mercy. - -I arrived a little before noon, and the ways were alive with messenger -boys and young clerks and assistants. On the ground was a mess of -papers, torn telegrams and letters. Near Broad and Wall streets the air -was filled with a hum of voices and typewriter clicks issuing from open -windows. Just then, as with the theatrical business later, and still -later with the motion picture industry, it had come to be important to -be in the street, however thin one’s connection. To say “I am in Wall -Street” suggested a world of prospects and possibilities. The fact that -at this time, and for twenty years after, the news columns were all but -closed to suicides and failures in Wall Street, so common were they, -illustrates how vagrant and unfounded were the dreams of many. - -But the end of Wall Street as the seat of American money domination -might even then have been foretold. The cities of the nation were -growing. New and by degrees more or less independent centers of finance -were being developed. In the course of fifteen years it had become the -boast of some cities that they could do without New York in the matter -of loans, and it was true. They could; and today many enterprises go -west, not east, for their cash. In the main, Wall Street has degenerated -into a second-rate gamblers’ paradise. What significant Wall Street -figures are there today? - -On one of my morning walks in New York I had wandered up Broadway to the -_Herald_ Building and looked into its windows, where were visible a -number of great presses in full operation, much larger than any I had -seen in the West, and my brother had recalled to me the fact that James -Gordon Bennett, owner and editor of the _Herald_, had once commissioned -Henry M. Stanley, at that time a reporter on the paper, to go to Africa -to find Livingstone. And my good brother, who romanticized all things, -my supposed abilities and possibilities included, was inclined to think -that if I came to New York some such great thing might happen to me. - -On another day I went to Printing House Square, where I stared at the -_Sun_ and _World_ and _Times_ and _Tribune_ buildings, all facing City -Hall Park, sighing for the opportunities that they represented. But I -did not act. Something about them overawed me, especially the _World_, -the editor of which had begun his career in St. Louis years before. -Compared with the Western papers with which I had been connected, all -New York papers seemed huge, the tasks they represented editorially and -reportorially much more difficult. True, a brother of a famous -playwright with whom I had worked in St. Louis had come East and -connected himself with the _World_, and I might have called upon him and -spied out the land. He had fortified himself with a most favorable -record in the West, as had I, only I did not look upon mine as so -favorable somehow. Again, a city editor once of St. Louis was now here, -city editor of one of the city’s great papers, the _Recorder_, and -another man, a Sunday editor of Pittsburgh, had become the Sunday editor -of the _Press_ here. But these appeared to me to be exceptional cases. I -reconnoitered these large and in the main rather dull institutions with -the eye of one who seeks to take a fortress. The editorial pages of all -of these papers, as I had noticed in the West, bristled with cynical and -condescending remarks about that region, and their voices representing -great circulation and wealth gave them amazing weight in my eyes. -Although I knew what I knew about the subservience of newspapers to -financial interests, their rat-like fear of religionists and moralists, -their shameful betrayal of the ordinary man at every point at which he -could possibly be betrayed yet still having the power, by weight of lies -and pretense and make-believe, to stir him up to his own detriment and -destruction, I was frightened by this very power, which in subsequent -years I have come to look upon as the most deadly anD forceful of all in -nature: the power to masquerade and by. - -There was about these papers an air of assurance and righteousness and -authority and superiority which overawed and frightened me. To work on -the _Sun_, the _Herald_, the _World_! How many cubs, from how many -angles of our national life, were constantly and hopefully eyeing them -from the very same sidewalks or benches in City Hall Park, as the -ultimate solution of all their literary, commercial, social, political -problems and ambitions. The thousands of pipe-smoking collegians who -have essayed the _Sun_ alone, the scullion Danas, embryo Greeleys and -Bennetts! - -I decided that it would be best for me to return to Pittsburgh and save -a little money before I took one of these frowning editorial offices by -storm, and I did return, but in what a reduced mood! Pittsburgh, after -New York and all I had seen there! And in this darkly brooding and -indifferent spirit I now resumed my work. A sum of money sufficient to -sustain me for a period in New York was all that I wished now. - -And in the course of the next four months I did save two hundred and -forty dollars, enduring deprivations which I marvel at even -now—breakfast consisting of a cruller and a cup of coffee; dinners that -cost no more than a quarter, sometimes no more than fifteen cents. In -the meantime I worked as before only to greater advantage, because I was -now more sure of myself. My study of Balzac and these recent adventures -in the great city had so fired my ambition that nothing could have kept -me in Pittsburgh. I lived on so little that I think I must have done -myself some physical harm which told against me later in the struggle -for existence in New York. - -At this time I had the fortune to discover Huxley and Tyndall and -Herbert Spencer, whose introductory volume to his _Synthetic Philosophy_ -(_First Principles_) quite blew me, intellectually, to bits. Hitherto, -until I had read Huxley, I had some lingering filaments of Catholicism -trailing about me, faith in the existence of Christ, the soundness of -his moral and sociologic deductions, the brotherhood of man. But on -reading _Science and Hebrew Tradition_ and _Science and Christian -Tradition_, and finding both the Old and New Testaments to be not -compendiums of revealed truth but mere records of religious experiences, -and very erroneous ones at that, and then taking up _First Principles_ -and discovering that all I deemed substantial—man’s place in nature, his -importance in the universe, this too, too solid earth, man’s very -identity save as an infinitesimal speck of energy or a “suspended -equation” drawn or blown here and there by larger forces in which he -moved quite unconsciously as an atom—all questioned and dissolved into -other and less understandable things, I was completely thrown down in my -conceptions or non-conceptions of life. - -Up to this time there had been in me a blazing and unchecked desire to -get on and the feeling that in doing so we did get somewhere; now in its -place was the definite conviction that spiritually one got nowhere, that -there was no hereafter, that one lived and had his being because one had -to, and that it was of no importance. Of one’s ideals, struggles, -deprivations, sorrows and joys, it could only be said that they were -chemic compulsions, something which for some inexplicable but -unimportant reason responded to and resulted from the hope of pleasure -and the fear of pain. Man was a mechanism, undevised and uncreated, and -a badly and carelessly driven one at that. - -I fear that I cannot make you feel how these things came upon me in the -course of a few weeks’ reading and left me numb, my gravest fears as to -the unsolvable disorder and brutality of life eternally verified. I felt -as low and hopeless at times as a beggar of the streets. There was of -course this other matter of necessity, internal chemical compulsion, to -which I had to respond whether I would or no. I was daily facing a round -of duties which now more than ever verified all that I had suspected and -that these books proved. With a gloomy eye I began to watch how the -chemical—and their children, the mechanical—forces operated through man -and outside him, and this under my very eyes. Suicides seemed sadder -since there was no care for them; failures the same. One of those -periodic scandals breaking out in connection with the care of prisoners -in some local or state jail, I saw how self-interest, the hope of -pleasure or the fear of pain caused jailers or wardens or a sheriff to -graft on prisoners, feed them rotten meat, torture them into silence and -submission, and then, politics interfering (the hope of pleasure again -and the fear of pain on the part of some), the whole thing hushed up, no -least measure of the sickening truth breaking out in the subservient -papers. Life could or would do nothing for those whom it so shamefully -abused. - -Again, there was a poor section, one street in the East Pittsburgh -district, shut off by a railroad at one end (the latter erecting a high -fence to protect itself from trespass) and by an arrogant property owner -at the other end; those within were actually left without means of -ingress and egress. Yet instead of denouncing either or both, the -railroads being so powerful and the citizen prosperous and within his -“rights,” I was told to write a humorous article but not to “hurt -anybody’s feelings.” Also before my eyes were always those regions of -indescribable poverty and indescribable wealth previously mentioned, -which were always carefully kept separate by the local papers, all the -favors and compliments and commercial and social aids going to those who -had, all the sniffs and indifferences and slights going to those who had -not; and when I read Spencer I could only sigh. All I could think of was -that since nature would not or could not do anything for man, he must, -if he could, do something for himself; and of this I saw no prospect, he -being a product of these selfsame accidental, indifferent and bitterly -cruel forces. - -And so I went on from day to day, reading, thinking, doing fairly -acceptable work, but always withdrawing more and more into myself. As I -saw it then, the world could not understand me, nor I it, nor men each -other very well. Then a little later I turned and said that since the -whole thing was hopeless I might as well forget it and join the narrow, -heartless, indifferent scramble, but I could not do that either, lacking -the temperament and the skill. All I could do was think, and since no -paper such as I knew was interested in any of the things about which I -was thinking, I was hopeless indeed. Finally, in late November, having -two hundred and forty dollars saved, I decided to leave this dismal -scene and seek the charm of the great city beyond, hoping that there I -might succeed at something, be eased and rested by some important work -of some kind. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXX - - -MY departure was accelerated by a conversation I had one day with the -political reporter of whom I have spoken but whose name I have -forgotten. By now I had come to be on agreeable social terms with all -the men on our staff, and at midnight it was my custom to drift around -to the Press Club, where might be found a goodly company of men who -worked on the different papers. I found this political man here one -night. He said: “I can’t understand why you stay here. Now I wouldn’t -say that to any one else in the game for fear he’d think I was plotting -to get him out of his job, but with you it’s different. There’s no great -chance here, and you have too much ability to waste your time on this -town. They won’t let you do anything. The steel people have this town -sewed up tight. The papers are muzzled. All you can do is to write what -the people at the top want you to write, and that’s very little. With -your talent you could go down to New York and make a place for yourself. -I’ve been there myself, but had to come back on account of my family. -The conditions were too uncertain for me, and I have to have a regular -income. But with you it’s different. You’re young, and apparently you -haven’t any one dependent on you. If you do strike it down there you’ll -make a lot of money, and what’s more you might make a name for yourself. -Don’t you think it’s foolish for you to stay here? Don’t think it’s -anything to me whether you go or stay. I haven’t any ax to grind, but I -really wonder why you stay.” - -I explained that I had been drifting, that I was really on my way to New -York but taking my time about it. Only a few days before I had been -reading of a certain Indo-English newspaper man, fresh out of India with -his books and short stories, who was making a great stir. His name was -Rudyard Kipling, and the enthusiasm with which he was being received -made me not jealous but wishful for a career for myself. The tributes to -his brilliance were so unanimous, and he was a mere youth as yet, not -more than twenty-seven or -eight. He was coming to America, or was even -then on his way, and the wonder of such a success filled my mind. I -decided then and there that I would go, must go, and accordingly gave -notice of my intention. My city editor merely looked at me as much as to -say, “Well, I thought so,” then said: “Well, I think you’ll do better -there myself, but I’m not glad to have you go. You can refer to us any -time you want to.” - -On Saturday I drew my pay at noon and by four o’clock had once more -boarded the express which deposited me in New York the following morning -at seven. My brother had long since left New York and would not be back -until the following Spring. I had exchanged a word or two with my sister -and found that she was not prospering. Since Paul had left she had been -forced to resort to letting rooms, H—— not having found anything to do. -I wired her that I was coming, and walked in on her the next morning. - -My sister, on seeing me again, was delighted. I did not know then, and -perhaps if I had I should not have been so pleased, that I was looked -upon by her as the possible way out of a very difficult and trying -crisis which she and her two children were then facing. For H——, from -being a one-time fairly resourceful and successful and aggressive man, -had slipped into a most disconcerting attitude of weakness and all but -indifference before the onslaughts of the great city. - -My brother Paul, being away, saw no reason why he should be called upon -to help them, since H—— was as physically able as himself. Aside from -renting their rooms there was apparently no other source of income here, -at least none which H—— troubled to provide. He appeared to be done for, -played out. Like so many who have fought a fair battle and then lost, he -had wearied of the game and was drifting. And my sister, like so many of -the children of ordinary families the world over, had received no -practical education or training and knew nothing other than housework, -that profitless trade. In consequence, within a very short time after my -arrival, I found myself faced by one of two alternatives: that of -retiring and leaving her to shift as best she might (a step which, in -view of what followed, would have been wiser but which my unreasoning -sympathy would not permit me to do), or of assisting her with what means -I had. But this would be merely postponing the day of reckoning for all -of them and bringing a great deal of trouble upon myself. For, finding -me willing to pay for my room and board here, and in addition to advance -certain sums which had nothing to do with my obligations, H—— felt that -he could now drift a little while longer and so did, accepting through -his wife such doles as I was willing to make. My sister, fumbling, -impractical soul, flowing like water into any crevice of opportunity, -accepted this sacrifice on my part. - -But despite these facts, which developed very slowly, I was very much -alive to the possibilities which the city then held for me. At last I -was here. I told myself I had a comfortable place to stay and would -remain, and from this vantage point I could now sally forth and -reconnoiter the city at my leisure. And as in all previous instances, I -devoted a day or two to rambling about, surveying the world which I was -seeking to manipulate to my advantage, and then on the second or third -afternoon began to investigate those newspaper offices with which I was -most anxious to connect. - -I can never forget the shock I received when on entering first the -_World_, then the _Sun_, and later the _Herald_, I discovered that one -could not so much as get in to see the city editor, that worthy being -guarded by lobby or anteroom, in which were posted as lookouts and -buffers or men-at-arms as cynical and contemptuous a company of youths -and hall boys as it has ever been my lot to meet. They were not only -self-sufficient, but supercilious, scoffing and ribald. Whenever I -entered one of these offices there were two or three on guard, sometimes -four or five in the _World_ office, wrestling for the possession of an -ink-well or a pencil or an apple, or slapping each other on the back. -But let a visitor arrive with an inquiry of some kind, and these young -banditti would cease their personal brawling long enough at least to -place themselves as a barricade between the newcomer and the door to the -editorial sanctum, whereupon would ensue the following routine formula, -each and every one of them chewing gum or eating an apple. - -“Whoja wanta see?” - -“The city editor.” - -“Wha’ja wanta see him about?” - -“A job.” - -“No vacancies. No; no vacancies today. He says to say no vacancies -today, see? You can’t go in there. He says no vacancies.” - -“But can’t I even see him?” - -“No; he don’t wanta see anybody. No vacancies.” - -“Well, how about taking my name in to him?” - -“Not if you’re lookin’ for a job. He says no vacancies.” - -The tone and the manner were most disconcerting. To me, new to the city -and rather overawed by the size of the buildings as well as the -reputation of the editors and the publications themselves, this was all -but final. For a little while after each rebuff I did not quite see how -I was to overcome this difficulty. Plainly they were overrun with -applicants, and in so great a city why would they not be? But what was I -to do? One must get in or write or call up on the telephone, but would -any city editor worthy the name discuss a man’s fitness or attempt to -judge him by a telephone conversation or a letter? - -Rather dourly and speculatively, therefore, after I had visited four or -five of these offices with exactly the same result in each instance, I -went finally to City Hall Park, which fronted the majority of them—the -_Sun_, the _Tribune_, the _Times_, the _World_, the _Press_—and stared -at their great buildings. About me was swirling the throng which has -always made that region so interesting, the vast mass that bubbles -upward from the financial district and the regions south of it and -crosses the plaza to Brooklyn Bridge and the elevated roads (the subways -had not come yet). About me on the benches of the park was, even in this -gray, chill December weather, that large company of bums, loafers, -tramps, idlers, the flotsam and jetsam of the great city’s whirl and -strife to be seen there today. I presume I looked at them and then -considered myself and these great offices, and it was then that the idea -of _Hurstwood_ was born. The city seemed so huge and cruel. I recalled -gay Broadway of the preceding summer, and the baking, isolated, -exclusive atmosphere of Fifth Avenue, all boarded up. And now I was here -and it was winter, with this great newspaper world to be conquered, and -I did not see how it was to be done. At four in the afternoon I -dubiously turned my steps northward along the great, bustling, solidly -commercial Broadway to Fifteenth Street, walking all the way and staring -into the shops. Those who recall _Sister Carrie’s_ wanderings may find a -taste of it here. In Union Square, before Tiffany’s, I stared at an -immense Christmas throng. Then in the darkness I wandered across to my -sister’s apartment, and in the warmth and light there set me down -thinking what to do. My sister noticed my mood and after a little while -said: - -“You’re worrying, aren’t you?” - -“Oh no, I’m not,” I said rather pretentiously. - -“Oh yes, you are too. You’re wondering how you’re going to get along. I -know how you are. We’re all that way. But you mustn’t worry. Paul says -you can write wonderfully. You’ve only been here a day or two. You must -wait until you’ve tried a little while and then see. You’re sure to get -along. New York isn’t so bad, only you have to get started.” - -I decided that this was true enough and proposed to give myself time to -think. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXXI - - -BUT the next day, and the next, and the next brought me no solution to -the problem. The weather had turned cold and for a time there was a -slushy snow on the ground, which made the matter of job-hunting all the -worse. Those fierce youths in the anterooms were no more kindly on the -second and fifth days than they had been on the first. But by now, in -addition to becoming decidedly dour, I was becoming a little angry. It -seemed to me to be the height of discourtesy, not to say rank brutality, -for newspapers, and especially those which boasted a social and -humanitarian leadership of their fellows in American life, to place such -unsophisticated and blatant and ill-trained upstarts between themselves -and the general public, men and women of all shades and degrees of -intelligence who might have to come in contact with them. H. L. Mencken -has written: “The average American newspaper, especially the so-called -better sort, has the intelligence of a Baptist evangelist, the courage -of a rat, the fairness of a prohibitionist boob-bumper, the information -of a high-school janitor, the taste of a designer of celluloid -valentines, and the honor of a police-station lawyer.” Judging by some -of my experiences and observations, I would be willing to subscribe to -this. The unwarranted and unnecessary airs! The grand assumption of -wisdom! The heartless and brutal nature of their internal economies, -their pandering to the cheapest of all public instincts and tendencies -in search of circulation! - -After several days I made up my mind to see the city editor of these -papers, regardless of hall boys. And so, going one day at one o’clock to -the _World_, I started to walk right in, but, being intercepted as -usual, lost my courage and retreated. However, as I have since thought, -perhaps this was fortunate, for going downstairs I meditated most -grievously as to my failure, my lack of skill and courage in carrying -out my intention. So thoroughly did I castigate myself that I recovered -my nerve and returned. I reëntered the small office, and finding two of -the youths still on hand and waiting to intercept me, brushed them both -aside as one might flies, opened the much-guarded door and walked in. - -To my satisfaction, while they followed me and by threats and force -attempted to persuade me to retreat, I gazed upon one of the most -interesting city reportorial and editorial rooms that I have ever -beheld. It was forty or fifty feet wide by a hundred or more deep, and -lighted, even by day in this gray weather, by a blaze of lights. The -entire space from front to back was filled with desks. A varied company -of newspaper men, most of them in shirt-sleeves, were hard at work. In -the forward part of the room, near the door by which I had entered, and -upon a platform, were several desks, at which three or four men were -seated—the throne, as I quickly learned, of the city editor and his -assistants. Two of these, as I could see, were engaged in reading and -marking papers. A third, who looked as though he might be the city -editor, was consulting with several men at his desk. Copy boys were -ambling to and fro. From somewhere came the constant click-click-click -of telegraph instruments and the howl of “Coppee!” I think I should have -been forced to retire had it not been for the fact that as I was -standing there, threatened and pleaded with by my two adversaries, a -young man (since distinguished in the journalistic world, Arthur -Brisbane) who was passing through the room looked at me curiously and -inquired courteously: - -“What is it you want?” - -“I want,” I said, half-angered by the spectacle I was making and that -was being made of me, “a job.” - -“Where do you come from?” - -“The West.” - -“Wait a moment,” he said, and the youths, seeing that I had attracted -his attention, immediately withdrew. He went toward the man at the desk -whom I had singled out as the city editor, and turned and pointed to me. -“This young man wants a job. I wish you would give him one.” - -The man nodded, and my remarkable interrogator, turning to me, said, -“Just wait here,” and disappeared. - -I did not know quite what to think, so astonished was I, but with each -succeeding moment my spirits rose, and by the time the city editor chose -to motion me to him I was in a very exalted state indeed. So much for -courage, I told myself. Surely I was fortunate, for had I not been -dreaming for months—years—of coming to New York and after great -deprivation and difficulty perhaps securing a position? And now of a -sudden here I was thus swiftly vaulted into the very position which of -all others I had most craved. Surely this must be the influence of a -star of fortune. Surely now if I had the least trace of ability, I -should be in a better position than I had ever been in before. I looked -about the great room, as I waited patiently and delightedly, and saw -pasted on the walls at intervals printed cards which read: _Accuracy, -Accuracy, Accuracy! Who? What? Where? When? How? The Facts—The Color—The -Facts!_ I knew what those signs meant: the proper order for beginning a -newspaper story. Another sign insisted upon _Promptness, Courtesy, -Geniality!_ Most excellent traits, I thought, but not as easy to put -into execution as comfortable publishers and managing editors might -suppose. - -Presently I was called over and told to take a seat, after being told: -“I’ll have an assignment for you after a while.” That statement meant -work, an opportunity, a salary. I felt myself growing apace, only the -eye and the glance of my immediate superior was by no means cheering or -genial. This man was holding a difficult position, one of the most -difficult in newspaperdom in America at the time, and under one of the -most eccentric and difficult of publishers, Joseph Pulitzer. - -This same Pulitzer, whom Alleyne Ireland subsequently characterized in -so brilliant a fashion as to make this brief sketch trivial and -unimportant save for its service here as a link in this tale, was a -brilliant and eccentric Magyar Jew, long since famous for his -journalistic genius. At that time he must have been between fifty-five -and sixty years of age, semi-dyspeptic and half-blind, having almost -wrecked himself physically, or so I understood, in a long and grueling -struggle to ascend to preeminence in the American newspaper world. He -was the chief owner, as I understood, of not only the New York _World_ -but the St. Louis _Post-Dispatch_, the then afternoon paper of largest -circulation and influence in that city. While I was in St. Louis the air -of that newspaper world was surcharged or still rife with this -remarkable publisher’s past exploits—how once, when he was starting in -the newspaper world as a publisher, he had been horsewhipped by some -irate citizen for having published some derogatory item, and, having -tamely submitted to the castigation, had then rushed into his sanctum -and given orders that an extra should be issued detailing the attack in -order that the news value might not be lost to the counting-room. -Similarly, one of his St. Louis city or managing editors (one Colonel -Cockerill by name, who at this very time or a very little later was -still one of the managing editors of the New York _World_) had, after -conducting some campaign of exposure against a local citizen by order of -his chief, and being confronted in his office by the same, evidently -come to punish him, drawn a revolver and killed him. - -That was a part of what might have been called the makings of this great -newspaper figure. Here in New York, after his arrival on the scene in -1884, at which time he had taken over a moribund journal called the -_World_, he had literally succeeded in turning things upside down, much -as did William Randolph Hearst after him, and as had Charles A. Dana and -others before him. Like all aggressive newspaper men worthy the name, he -had seized upon every possible vital issue and attacked, attacked, -attacked—Tammany Hall, Wall Street (then defended by the _Sun_ and the -_Herald_), the house of Morgan, some phases of society, and many other -features and conditions of the great city. For one thing, he had cut the -price of his paper to one cent, a move which was reported to have -infuriated his conservative and quiescent rivals, who were getting two, -three and five and who did not wish to be disturbed in their peaceful -pursuits. The _Sun_ in particular, which had been _made_ by the -brilliant and daring eccentricity of Dana and his earlier radicalism, -and the _Herald_, which originally owed its growth and fame to the -monopoly-fighting skill of Bennett, were now both grown conservative and -mutually attacked him as low, vulgar, indecent and the like, an upstart -Jew whose nose was in every putrescent dunghill, ratting out filth for -the consumption of the dregs of society. But is it not always so when -any one arises who wishes to break through from submersion or -nothingness into the white light of power and influence? Do not the -resultant quakes always infuriate those who have ceased growing or are -at least comfortably quiescent and who do not wish to be disturbed? - -Just the same, this man, because of his vital, aggressive, restless, -working mood, and his vaulting ambition to be all that there was to be -of journalistic force in America, was making a veritable hell of his -paper and the lives of those who worked for him. And although he himself -was not present at the time but was sailing around the world on a yacht, -or living in a villa on the Riviera, or at Bar Harbor, or in his town -house in New York or London, you could feel the feverish and disturbing -and distressing ionic tang of his presence in this room as definitely as -though he were there in the flesh. Air fairly sizzled with the ionic -rays of this black star. Of secretaries to this editor-publisher and -traveling with him at the time but coming back betimes to nose about the -paper and cause woe to others, there were five. Of sons, by no means in -active charge but growing toward eventual control, two. Of managing -editors, all slipping about and, as the newspaper men seemed to think, -spying on each other, at one time as many as seven. He had so little -faith in his fellow-man, and especially such of his fellow-men as were -so unfortunate as to have to work for him, that he played off one -against another as might have the council of the Secret Ten in Venice, -or as did the devils who ruled in the Vatican in the Middle Ages. Every -man’s hand, as I came to know in the course of time, was turned against -that of every other. All were thoroughly distrustful of each other and -feared the incessant spying that was going on. Each, as I was told and -as to a certain extent one could feel, was made to believe that he was -the important one, or might be, presuming that he could prove that the -others were failures or in error. Proposed editorials, suggestions for -news features, directions as to policy and what not, were coming in from -him every hour via cable or telegraph. Nearly every issue of any -importance was being submitted to him by the same means. He was, as -described by this same Alleyne Ireland, undoubtedly semi-neurasthenic, a -disease-demonized soul, who could scarcely control himself in anything, -a man who was fighting an almost insane battle with life itself, trying -to be omnipotent and what not else, and never to die. - -But in regard to the men working here how sharp a sword of disaster -seemed suspended above them by a thread, the sword of dismissal or of -bitter reprimand or contempt. They had a kind of nervous, resentful -terror in their eyes as have animals when they are tortured. All were -either scribbling busily or hurrying in or out. Every man was for -himself. If you had asked a man a question, as I ventured to do while -sitting here, not knowing anything of how things were done here, he -looked at you as though you were a fool, or as though you were trying to -take something away from him or cause him trouble of some kind. In the -main they hustled by or went on with their work without troubling to pay -the slightest attention to you. I had never encountered anything like it -before, and only twice afterwards in my life did I find anything which -even partially approximated it, and both times in New York. After the -peace and ease of Pittsburgh—God! But it was immense, just the -same—terrific. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXXII - - -AFTER I had waited an hour or so, a boy came up and said: “The city -editor wants to see you.” I hurried forward to the desk of that Poohbah, -who merely handed me a small clipping from another paper giving an -account of some extra-terrestrial manifestations that had been taking -place in a graveyard near Elizabeth, and told me to “see what there is -in that.” Unsophisticated as I was as to the ways of the metropolis, and -assuming, Western-fashion, that I might ask a question of my new chief, -I ventured a feeble “Where is that?” For my pains I received as -contemptuous a look as it is possible for one human being to give -another. - -“Back of the directory! Back of the directory!” came the semi-savage -reply, and not quite realizing what was meant by that I retired -precipitately, trying to think it out. - -Almost mechanically I went to the directory, but fumbling through that -part of it which relates to streets and their numbers I began to realize -that Elizabeth was a town and not a street. At a desk near the directory -I noticed a stout man of perhaps forty, rotund and agreeable, who seemed -to be less fierce and self-centered than some of the others. He had -evidently only recently entered, for he had kicked off a pair of -overshoes and laid a greatcoat over a chair beside him and was -scribbling. - -“Can you tell me how I can get to Elizabeth?” I inquired of him. - -“Sure,” he said, looking up and beginning to chuckle. “I haven’t been in -the city very long myself, but I know where that is. It’s on the Jersey -Central, about twelve miles out. You’ll catch a local by going down to -the Liberty Street ferry. I heard him tell you ‘Back of the directory,’” -he added genially. “You mustn’t mind that—that’s what they always tell -you here, these smart alecks,” and he chuckled, very much like my friend -McCord. “They’re the most inconsiderate lot I ever went up against, but -you have to get used to it. Out where I came from they’ll give you a -civil answer once in a while, but here it’s ‘Back of the directory,’” -and he chuckled again. - -“And where do you come from?” I asked. - -“Oh, Pittsburgh originally,” he said, which same gave me a spiritual -lift, “but I haven’t been in the game for several years. I’ve been doing -press agent work for a road show, one of my own,” and he chuckled again. -“I’m not a stranger to New York exactly, but I am to this paper and this -game down here.” - -I wanted to stay longer and talk to him, but I had to hurry on this my -first assignment in New York. “Is this your desk?” I asked. - -“No; they haven’t deigned to give me one yet,” and he chuckled again. -“But I suppose I will get one eventually—if they don’t throw me out.” - -“I hope I’ll see you when I get back.” - -“Oh, I’ll be around here, if I’m not out in the snow. It’s tough, isn’t -it?” and he turned to his work again. I bustled out through that same -anteroom where I had been restrained, and observed to my pestiferous -opponents: “Now just take notice, Eddie. I belong here, see? I work -here. And I’ll be back in a little while.” - -“Oh, dat’s all right,” he replied with a grin. “We gotta do dat. We -gotta keep mosta dese hams outa here, dough. Dat’s de orders we got.” - -“Hams?” I thought. “They let these little snips speak of strangers as -hams! That’s New York for you!” - -I made the short dreary commuters’ trip to Elizabeth. When I found my -graveyard and the caretaker thereof, he said there was no truth in the -story. No man by the name of the dead man mentioned had ever been buried -there. No noises or appearances of any kind had been recorded. “They’re -always publishing things like that about New Jersey,” he said. “I wish -they’d quit it. Some newspaper fellow just wanted to earn a little -money, that’s all.” - -I tramped back, caught a train and reached the office at eight. Already -most of the assignments had been given out. The office was comparatively -empty. The city editor had gone to dinner. At a desk along a wall was a -long, lean, dyspeptic-looking man, his eyes shaded by a green shield, -whom I took to be the night editor, so large was the pile of “copy” -beside him, but when I ventured to approach him he merely glared sourly. -“The city desk’s not closed yet,” he growled. “Wait’ll they come back.” - -I retired, rebuffed again. - -Presently one of the assistants reappeared and I reported to him. -“Nothing to it, eh?” he observed. “But there ought to be some kind of a -josh to it.” I did not get him. He told me to wait around, and I sought -out an empty desk and sat down. The thing that was interesting me was -how much I should be paid per week. In the meanwhile I contented myself -with counting the desks and wondering about the men who occupied them, -who they were, and what they were doing. To my right, against the north -wall, were two roll-top desks, at one of which was seated a dapper -actor-like man writing and posting. He was arrayed in a close-fitting -gray suit, with a bright vest and an exceedingly high collar. Because of -some theatrical programs which I saw him examining, I concluded that he -must be connected with the dramatic department, probably _the_ dramatic -critic. I was interested and a little envious. The dramatic department -of a great daily in New York seemed a wonderful thing to me. - -After a time also there entered another man who opened the desk next the -dramatic critic. He was medium tall and stocky, with a mass of loose -wavy hair hanging impressively over his collar, not unlike the advance -agent of a cure-all or a quack Messiah. His body was encased in a huge -cape-coat which reached to his knees after the best manner of a -tragedian. He wore a large, soft-brimmed felt, which he now doffed -rather grandiosely, and stood a big cane in the corner. He had, the look -and attitude of a famous musician, the stage-type, and evidently took -himself very seriously. I put him down as the musical critic at least, -some great authority of whom I should hear later. - -Time went by, and I waited. Through the windows from where I was sitting -I could see the tops of one or two buildings, one holding a clock-face -lighted with a green light. Being weary of sitting, I ventured to leave -my seat and look out to the south. Then for the first time I saw that -great night panorama of the East River and the bay with its ships and -docks, and the dark mass of buildings in between, many of them still -lighted. It was a great scene, and a sense of awe came over me. New York -was so vast, so varied, so rich, so hard. How was one to make one’s way -here? I had so little to offer, merely a gift of scribbling; and money, -as I could see, was not to be made in that way. - -The city editor returned and told me to attend a meeting of some -committee which looked to the better lighting and cleaning of a certain -district. It was all but too late, as I knew, and if reported would be -given no more than an inch of space. I took it rather dejectedly. Then -fell the worst blow of all. “Wait a minute,” he said, as I moved to -depart. “I wanted to tell you. I can’t make you a reporter yet—there is -no vacancy on our regular staff. But I’ll put you on space, and you can -charge up whatever you get in at seven-and-a-half a column. We allow -fifty cents an hour for time. Show up tomorrow at eleven, and I’ll see -if anything turns up.” - -My heart sank to my shoes. No reportorial staff with which I had ever -been connected had been paid by space. I went to the meeting and found -that it was of no importance, and made but one inch, as I discovered -next morning by a careful examination of the paper. And a column of the -paper measured exactly twenty-one inches! So my efforts this day, -allowing for time charged for my first trip, had resulted in a total of -one dollar and eighty-six cents, or a little less than street-sweepers -and snow-shovelers were receiving. - -But this was not all. Returning about eleven with this item, I ventured -to say to the night editor now in charge: “When does a man leave here?” - -“You’re a new space man, aren’t you?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“You have the late watch tonight.” - -“And how late is that?” - -“Until after the first edition is on the press,” he growled. - -Not knowing when that was I still did not venture to question him but -returned to another reporter working near at hand, who told me I should -have to stay until three. At that time my green-shaded mentor called, -“You might as well go now,” and I made my way to the Sixth Avenue L and -so home, having been here since one o’clock of the preceding day. The -cheerful face of my sister sleepily admitting me was quite the best -thing that this brisk day in the great city had provided. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXXIII - - -THE next morning, coming down at eleven I encountered my friend of the -day before, whom I found looking through the paper and checking up such -results as he had been able to achieve. “Tst! Tst!” he clicked to -himself as he went over the pages, looking high and low for a minute -squib which he had managed to get in. Looking around and seeing me near -at hand, he said: “Positively, this is the worst paper in New York. I’ve -always heard it was, and now I know it. This damned crowd plays -favorites. They have an inside ring, a few pets, who get all the cream, -and fellows like you and me get the short ends. Take me yesterday: I was -sent out on four lousy little stories, and not one amounted to anything. -I tramped and rode all over town in the snow, listened to a lot of fools -spout, and this morning I have just three little items. Look at that—and -that—and that!” and he pointed to checkmarks on different pages. They -made a total of, say, seven or eight inches, the equivalent in cash of -less than three dollars. “And I’m supposed to live on that,” he went on, -“and I have a boy and a girl in school! How do they figure that a man is -to get along?” - -I had no consolation to offer him. After a time he resumed: “What they -do is to get strangers like us, or any of these down-and-out newspaper -men always walking up and down Park Row looking for a job, and get us to -work on space because it sounds bigger to a greenhorn. Sure they have -space-men here who amount to something, fellows who get big money, but -they’re not like us. They make as much as seventy-five and a hundred -dollars a week. But they’re rewrite men, old reporters who have too big -a pull and who are too sure of themselves to stand for the low salaries -they pay here. But they’re at the top. We little fellows are told that -stuff about space, but all we get is leg-work. If you or I should get -hold of a good story don’t you ever think they’d let us write it. I know -that much. They’d take it away and give it to one of these rewrite -fellows. There’s one now,” and he pointed to a large comfortable man in -a light brown overcoat and brown hat who was but now ambling in. “He -rewrote one of my stories just the other day. If they wanted you for -regular work they’d make you take a regular salary for fear you’d get -too much of space. They just keep us little fellows as extras to follow -up such things as they wouldn’t waste a good man on. And they’re always -firing a crowd of men every three or four months to keep up the zip of -the staff, to keep ’em worried and working hard. I hate the damned -business. I told myself in Pittsburgh that I never would get back in it -again, but here I am!” - -This revelation made me a little sick. So this was my grand job! A long -period of drudgery for little or nothing, my hard-earned money -exhausted—and then what? - -“Just now,” he went on, “there’s nothing doing around the town or I -wouldn’t be here. I’m only staying on until I can get something better. -It’s a dog’s life. There’s nothing in it. I worked here all last week, -and what do you think I made? Twelve dollars and seventy-five cents for -the whole week, time included. Twelve dollars and seventy-five cents! -It’s an outrage!” - -I agreed with him. “What is this time they allow?” I asked. “How do they -figure—expenses and all?” - -“Sure, they allow expenses, and I’m going to figure mine more liberally -from now on. It’s a little bonus they allow you for the time you work, -but you don’t get anything anyhow. I’ll double any railroad fare I pay. -If they don’t like it they can get somebody else. But they won’t let you -do too much of it, and if you can’t make a little salary on small stuff -they won’t keep you even then.” He grinned. “Anything big goes to the -boys on a salary, and if it’s real big the space-men, who are on salary -and space also, get the cream. I went out on a story the other afternoon -and tramped around in the rain and got all the facts, and just as I was -going to sit down and write it—well, I hadn’t really got started—one of -the managing editors—there are about twenty around here—came up and took -it away from me and gave it to somebody else to write. All I got was -‘time.’ Gee, I was sore! But I don’t care,” he added with a chuckle. -“I’ll be getting out of here one of these days.” - -Being handed this dose of inspiring information, I was in no mood for -what followed; although I decided that this series of ills that were now -befalling him was due to the fact that he was older than myself and -maybe not very efficient, whereas in my case, being young, efficient, -etc., etc—the usual mental bonus youth hands itself—I should do better. -But when it came to my assignments this day and the next and the next, -and in addition I was “handed” the late watch, my cock sureness began to -evaporate. Each day I was given unimportant rumors or verification -tales, which came to nothing. So keen was the competition between the -papers, especially between the _World_ and the _Sun_, or the _World_ and -the _Herald_, that almost everything suggested by one was looked into -and criticized by the others. The items assigned to me this second day -were: to visit the city morgue and there look up the body of a young and -beautiful girl who was supposed to have drowned herself or been drowned -and see if this was true, as another paper had said (and of course she -was not beautiful at all); to visit a certain hotel to find out what I -could about a hotel beat who had been arrested (this item, although -written, was never used); to visit a Unitarian conference called to -debate some supposed changes in faith or method of church development, -the date for which however had been changed without notice to the -papers, for which I was allowed time and carfare. My time, setting aside -the long and wearisome hours in which I sat in the office awaiting my -turn for an assignment, netted me the handsome sum of two dollars and -fifty cents. And all the time in this very paper, I could read the -noblest and most elevating discourses about duty, character, the need of -a higher sense of citizenship, and what not. I used to frown at the -shabby pecksniffery of it, the cheap buncombe that would allow a great -publisher to bleed and drive his employees at one end of his house and -deliver exordiums as to virtue, duty, industry, thrift, honesty at the -other. - -However, despite these little setbacks and insights, I was not to be -discouraged. The fact that I had succeeded elsewhere made me feel that -somehow I should succeed here. Nevertheless, in spite of this sense of -efficiency, I was strangely overawed and made more than ordinarily -incompetent by the hugeness and force and heartlessness of the great -city, its startling contrasts of wealth and poverty, the air of -ruthlessness and indifference and disillusion that everywhere prevailed. -Only recently there had been a disgusting exposure of the putrescence -and heartlessness and brutality which underlay the social structure of -the city. There had been the Lexow Investigation with its sickening -revelations of graft and corruption, and the protection and -encouragement of vice and crime in every walk of political and police -life. The most horrible types of brothels had been proved to be not only -winked at but preyed upon by the police and the politicians by a fixed -and graded monthly tax in which the patrolman, the “roundsman,” the -captain and the inspector, to say nothing of the district leader, -shared. There was undeniable proof that the police and the politicians, -even the officials, of the city were closely connected with all sorts of -gambling and wire-tapping and bunco-steering, and even the subornation -of murder. To the door of every house of prostitution and transient -rooming-house the station police captain’s man, the _roundsman_, came as -regularly as the rent or the gas man, and took more away. “Squealers” -had been murdered in cold blood for their squealing. A famous chief of -police, Byrnes by name, reputed at that time, far and wide, for his -supposed skill in unraveling mysteries, being faced by a saturnalia of -crime which he could not solve, had finally in self-defense caused to be -arrested, tried, convicted and electrocuted, all upon suborned -testimony, an old, helpless, half-witted bum known as Old Shakespeare, -whose only crime was that he was worthless and defenseless. But the -chief had thereby saved his “reputation.” Not far from the region in -which my sister lived, although it was respectable enough in its way, -tramped countless girls by night and by day looking for men, the great -business of New York, and all preyed upon by the police. On several -occasions, coming home from work after midnight, I found men lying -hatless, coatless, trousers pockets pulled out, possibly their skulls -fractured, so inadequate or indifferent or conniving was the so-called -police protection. - -Nowhere before had I seen such a lavish show of wealth, or, such bitter -poverty. In my reporting rounds I soon came upon the East Side; the -Bowery, with its endless line of degraded and impossible lodging-houses, -a perfect whorl of bums and failures; the Brooklyn waterfront, parts of -it terrible in its degradation; and then by way of contrast again the -great hotels, the mansions along Fifth Avenue, the smart shops and clubs -and churches. When I went into Wall Street, the Tenderloin, the Fifth -Avenue district, the East and West sides, I seemed everywhere to sense -either a terrifying desire for lust or pleasure or wealth, accompanied -by a heartlessness which was freezing to the soul, or a dogged -resignation to deprivation and misery. Never had I seen so many -down-and-out men—in the parks, along the Bowery and in the -lodging-houses which lined that pathetic street. They slept over -gratings anywhere from which came a little warm air, or in doorways or -cellar-ways. At a half dozen points in different parts of the city I -came upon those strange charities which supply a free meal to a man or -lodging for the night, providing that he came at a given hour and waited -long enough. - -And never anywhere had I seen so much show and luxury. Nearly all of the -houses along upper Fifth Avenue and its side streets boasted their -liveried footmen. Wall Street was a sea of financial trickery and -legerdemain, a realm so crowded with sharklike geniuses of finance that -one’s poor little arithmetic intelligence was entirely discounted and -made ridiculous. How was a sniveling scribbler to make his way in such a -world? Nothing but chance and luck, as I saw it, could further the -average man or lift him out of his rut, and since when had it been -proved that I was a favorite of fortune? A crushing sense of -incompetence and general in-efficiency seemed to settle upon me, and I -could not shake it off. Whenever I went out on an assignment—and I was -always being sent upon those trivial, shoe-wearing affairs—I carried -with me this sense of my unimportance. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXXIV - - -IT is entirely possible that, due to some physical or mental defect of -my own, I was in no way fitted to contemplate so huge and ruthless a -spectacle as New York then presented, or that I had too keen a -conception of it at any rate. After a few days of work here I came in -touch with several newspaper men from the West—a youth by the name of -Graves, another by the name of Elliott, both formerly of Chicago, and a -third individual who had once been in St. Louis, Wynne Thomas, brother -of the famous playwright, Augustus. All were working on this paper, two -of them in the same capacity as myself, the third a staff man. At night -we used to sit about doing the late watch and spin all sorts of -newspaper tales. These men had wandered from one place to another, and -had seen—heavens, what had they not seen! They were completely -disillusioned. Here, as in newspaper offices everywhere, one could hear -the most disconcerting tales of human depravity and cruelty. I think -that in the hours I spent with these men I learned as much about New -York and its difficulties and opportunities, its different social -strata, its outstanding figures social and political, as I might have -learned in months of reporting and reading. They seemed to know every -one likely to figure in the public eye. By degrees they introduced me to -others, and all confirmed the conclusions which I was reaching. New York -was difficult and revolting. The police and politicians were a menace; -vice was rampant; wealth was shamelessly showy, cold and brutal. In New -York the outsider or beginner had scarcely any chance at all, save as a -servant. The city was overrun with hungry, loafing men of all -descriptions, newspaper writers included. - -After a few weeks of experimenting, however, I had no need of -confirmation from any source. An assignment or two having developed well -under my handling, and I having reported my success to the city editor, -I was allowed to begin to write it, then given another assignment and -told to turn my story over to the large gentleman with the gold-headed -cane. This infuriated and discouraged me, but I said nothing. I thought -it might be due to the city editor’s conviction, so far not disturbed by -any opportunity I had had, that I could not write. - -But one night, a small item about a fight in a tenement house having -been given me to investigate, I went to the place in question and found -that it was a cheap beer-drinking brawl on the upper East Side which had -its origin in the objection of one neighbor to the noise made by -another. I constructed a ridiculous story of my own to the effect that -the first irritated neighbor was a musician who had been attempting at -midnight to construct a waltz, into which the snores, gurgles, moans and -gasps of his slumberous next-door neighbor would not fit. Becoming -irritated and unable by calls and knocking to arouse his friend and so -bring him to silence, he finally resorted to piano banging and -glass-breaking of such a terrible character as to arouse the entire -neighborhood and cause the sending in of a riot call by a policeman, who -thought that a tenement war had broken out. Result: broken heads and an -interesting parade to the nearest police station. Somewhere in the text -I used the phrase “sawing somnolent wood.” - -Finding no one in charge of the city editor’s desk when I returned, I -handed my account to the night city editor. The next morning, lo and -behold, there it was on the first page consuming at least a fourth of a -column! To my further surprise and gratification, once the city editor -appeared I noticed a change of attitude in him. While waiting for an -assignment, I caught his eye on me, and finally he came over, paper in -hand, and pointing to the item said: “You wrote this, didn’t you?” I -began to think that I might have made a mistake in creating this bit of -news and that it had been investigated and found to be a fiction. “Yes,” -I replied. Instead of berating me he smiled and said: “Well, it’s rather -well done. I may be able to make a place for you after a while. I’ll see -if I can’t find an interesting story for you somewhere.” - -And true to his word, he gave me another story on this order. In the -Hoffman House bar, one of the show-places of the city, there had been a -brawl the day before, a fight between a well-known society youth of -great wealth who owed the hotel money and would not pay as speedily as -it wished, and a manager or assistant manager who had sent him some form -of disturbing letter. All the details, as I discovered on reading the -item (which had been clipped from the _Herald_), had been fully covered -by that paper, and all that remained for me twenty-four hours later was -to visit the principals and extract some comments or additions to the -tale, which plainly I was expected to revamp in a humorous fashion. - -As I have said, humor had never been wholly in my line, and in addition -I had by no means overcome my awe of the city and its imposing and -much-advertised “Four Hundred.” Now to be called upon to invade one of -its main hostelries and beard the irate and lofty manager in his den, to -say nothing of this young Vanderbilt or Goelet—well——I told myself that -when I reached this hotel the manager would doubtless take a very lofty -tone and refuse to discuss the matter—which was exactly what happened. -He was infuriated to think that he had been reported as fighting. -Similarly, should I succeed in finding this society youth’s apartment, I -should probably be snubbed or shunted off in some cavalier fashion—which -was exactly what happened. I was told that my Mr. X. was not there. -Then, as a conscientious newspaper man, I knew I should return to the -hotel and by cajolery or bribery see if I could not induce some -barkeeper or waiter who had witnessed the fight to describe some phase -of it that I might use. - -But I was in no mood for this, and besides, I was afraid of these New -York waiters and managers and society people. Suppose they complained of -my tale and denounced me as a faker? I returned to the hotel, but its -onyx lobby and bar and its heavy rococo decorations and furniture took -my courage away. I lingered about but could not begin my inquiries, and -finally walked out. Then I went back to the apartment house in which my -youth lived, but still he was not in and I could extract no news from -the noble footman who kept the door. I did not see how I was to conjure -up humor from the facts in hand. Finally I dropped it as unworthy of me -and returned to the office. In doing so I had the feeling that I was -turning aside an item by which, had I chosen to fake, I could have -furthered myself. I knew now that what my city editor wanted was not -merely “accuracy, accuracy, accuracy,” but a kind of flair for the -ridiculous or the remarkable even though it had to be invented, so that -the pages of the paper, and life itself, might not seem so dull. Also I -realized that a more experienced man, one used to the ways of the city -and acquainted with its interesting and eccentric personalities, might -make something out of this and not come to grief; but not I. And so I -let it go, realizing that I was losing an excellent opportunity. - -And I think that my city editor thought so too. When I returned and told -him that I could not find anything interestingly new in connection with -this he looked at me as much as to say, “Well, I’ll be damned!” and -threw the clipping on his desk. I am satisfied that if any reporter had -succeeded in uncovering any aspect of this case not previously used I -should have been dropped forthwith. As it turned out, however, nothing -more developed, and for a little time anyhow I was permitted to drag on -as before, but with no further favors. - -One day, being given a part of a “badger” case to unravel, a man and -woman working together to divest a hotel man of a check for five -thousand dollars, and I having cajoled the lady in the case (then under -arrest) into making some interesting remarks as to her part in the -affair and badgering in general, I was not allowed to write it but had -to content myself with seeing my very good yarn incorporated in another -man’s story while I took “time.” Another day, having developed another -excellent tale of a runaway marriage, the girl being of a family of some -standing, I was not allowed to write it. I was beginning to see that I -was a hopeless failure as a reporter here. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXXV - - -THE things which most contributed to my want of newspaper success in New -York and eventually drove me, though much against my will and -understanding, into an easier and more agreeable phase of life were, -first, that awe of the grinding and almost disgusting forces of life -itself which I found in Spencer and Huxley and Balzac and which now -persistently haunted me and, due possibly to a depressed physical -condition at this time, made it impossible for me to work with any of -the zest that had characterized my work in the West. Next, there was -that astounding contrast between wealth and poverty, here more sharply -emphasized than anywhere else in America, which gave the great city a -gross and cruel and mechanical look, and this was emphasized not only by -the papers themselves, with their various summaries of investigations -and exposures, but also by my own hourly contact with it—a look so harsh -and indifferent at times as to leave me a little numb. Again, there was -something disillusioning in the sharp contrast between the professed -ideals and preachments of such a constantly moralizing journal as the -_World_ and the heartless and savage aspect of its internal economy. Men -such as myself were mere machines or privates in an ill-paid army to be -thrown into any breach. There was no time off for the space-men, unless -it was for all time. One was expected to achieve the results desired or -get out; and if one did achieve them the reward was nothing. - -One day I met an acquaintance and asked about an ex-city editor from St. -Louis who had come to New York, and his answer staggered me. - -“Oh, Cliff? Didn’t you hear? Why, he committed suicide down here in a -West Street hotel.” - -“What was the trouble?” I asked. - -“Tired of the game, I guess,” he replied. “He didn’t get along down here -as well as he had out there. I guess he felt that he was going -downhill.” - -I walked away, meditating. He had been an excellent newspaper man, as -brisk and self-centered as one need be to prosper. The last time I had -seen him he was in good physical condition, and yet, after something -like a year in New York, he had killed himself. - -However, my mood was not that of one who runs away from a grueling -contest. I had no notion of leaving New York, whatever happened, -although I constantly speculated as to what I should do when all my -money was gone. I had no trade or profession beyond this reporting, and -yet I was convinced that there must be something else that I could do. -Come what might, I was determined that I would ask no favor of my -brother, and as for my sister, who was now a burden on my hands, I was -determined that as soon as this burden became too great I would take up -her case with my brother Paul, outline all that had been done and ask -him to shoulder the difference until such time as I could find myself in -whatever work I was destined to do. - -But what was it? - -One of the things which oppressed me was the fact that on the _World_, -as well as on the other papers, were men as young as myself who were -apparently of a very different texture, mentally if not physically. Life -and this fierce contest which I was taking so much to heart seemed in no -wise to disturb them. By reason of temperament and insight perhaps, -possibly the lack of it, or, what was more likely, certain fortunate -circumstances attending their youth and upbringing, they were part of -that oncoming host of professional optimists and yea-sayers, chorus-like -in character, which for thirty years or more thereafter in American life -was constantly engaged in the pleasing task of emphasizing the -possibilities of success, progress, strength and what not for all, in -America and elsewhere, while at the same time they were humbly and -sycophantically genuflecting before the strong, the lucky, the -prosperous. On the _World_ alone at this time, to say nothing of the -other papers, were at least a dozen, swaggering about in the best of -clothes, their manners those of a graduate of Yale or Harvard or -Princeton, their minds stuffed with all the noble maxims of the -uplifters. There was nothing wrong with the world that could not be -easily and quickly righted, once the honest, just, true, kind, -industrious turned their giant and selected brains to the task. This -newest type of young newspaper man was to have no traffic with evil in -any form; he was to concern himself with the Good, the True, the -Beautiful. Many of these young men pretended to an intimate working -knowledge of many things: society, politics, finance and what not else. -Several had evidently made themselves indispensable as ship reporters, -interviewers of arriving and departing celebrities, and these were now -pointed out to me as men worthy of envy and emulation. One of them had, -at the behest of the _World_, crossed the ocean more than once seeking -to expose the principals in a growing ship-gambling and bunco scandal. -There were those who were in the confidence of the mayor, the governor, -and some of the lights in Wall Street. One, a scion of one of the best -families, was the paper’s best adviser as to social events and scandals. -The grand air with which they swung in and out of the office set me -beside myself with envy. - -And all the time the condition of my personal affairs tended to make me -anything but optimistic. I was in very serious financial straits. I -sometimes think that I was too new to the city, too green to its -psychology and subtlety, to be of any use to a great metropolitan daily; -and yet, seeing all I had seen, I should have been worth something. I -was only five years distant from the composition of _Sister Carrie_, to -say nothing of many short stories and magazine articles. Yet I was -haunted by the thought that I was a misfit, that I might really have to -give up and return to the West, where in some pathetic humdrum task I -should live out a barren and pointless life. - -With this probable end staring me in the face, I began to think that I -must not give up but must instead turn to letters, the art of -short-story writing; only just how to do this I could not see. One of -the things that prompted me to try this was the fact that on the _World_ -at this time were several who had succeeded—David Graham Phillips, James -Creelman, then a correspondent for the paper in the war which had broken -out between China and Japan, to say nothing of George Cary Eggleston and -Reginald de Koven, the latter on the staff as chief musical critic. -There was another young man, whose name I have forgotten, who was -pointed out to me as a rapidly growing favorite in the office of the -_Century_. Then there were those new arrivals in the world of letters: -Kipling, Richard Harding Davis, Stephen Crane and some others, whose -success fascinated me. - -All this was but an irritant to a bubbling chemistry which as yet had -found no solution, and was not likely to find one for some time to come. -My reading of Spencer and Huxley in no wise tended to clarify and impel -my mind in the direction of fiction, or even philosophy. But now, in a -kind of ferment or fever due to my necessities and desperation, I set to -examining the current magazines and the fiction and articles to be found -therein: _Century_, _Scribner’s_, _Harper’s_. I was never more -confounded than by the discrepancy existing between my own observations -and those displayed here, the beauty and peace and charm to be found in -everything, the almost complete absence of any reference to the coarse -and the vulgar and the cruel and the terrible. How did it happen that -these remarkable persons—geniuses of course, one and all—saw life in -this happy roseate way? Was it so, and was I all wrong? Love was almost -invariably rewarded in these tales. Almost invariably one’s dreams came -true, in the magazines. Most of these bits of fiction, delicately -phrased, flowed so easily, with such an air of assurance, omniscience -and condescension, that I was quite put out by my own lacks and defects. -They seemed to deal with phases of sweetness and beauty and success and -goodness such as I rarely encountered. There were so many tales of the -old South reeking with a poetry which was poetry and little more (George -W. Cable; Thomas Nelson Page). In _Harper’s_ I found such assured -writers as William Dean Howells, Charles Dudley Warner, Frank R. -Stockton, Mrs. Humphry Ward, and a score of others, all of whom wrote of -nobility of character and sacrifice and the greatness of ideals and joy -in simple things. - -But as I viewed the strenuous world about me, all that I read seemed not -to have so very much to do with it. Perhaps, as I now thought, life as I -saw it, the darker phases, was never to be written about. Maybe such -things were not the true province of fiction anyhow. I read and read, -but all I could gather was that I had no such tales to tell, and, -however much I tried, I could not think of any. The kind of thing I was -witnessing no one would want as fiction. These writers seemed far above -the world of which I was a part. Indeed I began to picture them as -creatures of the greatest luxury and culture, gentlemen and ladies all, -comfortably housed, masters of servants, possessing estates, or at least -bachelor quarters, having horses and carriages, and received here, there -and everywhere with nods of recognition and smiles of approval. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXXVI - - -AND then after a little while, being assigned to do routine work in -connection with the East Twenty-seventh Street police station, Bellevue -Hospital, and the New York Charities Department, which included branches -that looked after the poor-farm, the morgue, an insane asylum or two, a -workhouse and what not else, I was called upon daily to face as -disagreeable and depressing a series of scenes as it is possible for a -human being to witness and which quite finished me. I was compelled to -inquire of fat, red-faced sergeants, and door-keepers who reigned in -police stations and hospital registry rooms what was new, and, by being -as genial and agreeable as possible and so earning their favor, to get -an occasional tip as to the most unimportant of brawls. Had I been in a -different mental state the thickness and incommunicability of some of -these individuals would not have been proof against my arts. I could -have devised or manufactured something. - -But as it was the nature of this world depressed me so that I could not -have written anything very much worth while if I had wanted to. There -was the morgue, for instance—that horrible place! Daily from the -ever-flowing waters about New York there were recaptured or washed up in -all stages and degrees of decomposition the flotsam and jetsam of the -great city, its offal, its victims—its what? I came here often (it stood -at the foot of East Twenty-sixth Street near Bellevue Hospital) and -invariably I found the same old brown-denimed caretaker in charge, a -creature so thick and so lethargic and so mentally incompetent generally -that it was all I could do to extract a grunt of recognition out of him. -Yet, if handed a cigar occasionally or a bag of tobacco, he would -trouble to get out of his chair and let you look over a book or ledger -containing the roughly jotted down police descriptions, all done in an -amazing scrawl, of the height, weight, color of clothes if any, -complexion of hair and eyes where these were still distinguishable, -probable length of time in water, contents of pockets, jewelry or money -if any, etc., which same were to be noted in connection with any mystery -or disappearance of a person. And there was always some one “turning up -missing.” And I noticed, with considerable cynicism, that rarely if ever -was there any money or jewelry reported as found by the police. That -would be too much to expect. - -Being further persuaded via blandishments or tips of one kind and -another, this caretaker would lead the way to a shelf of drawers -reaching from the floor to the chest-height of a man or higher and -running about two sides of the room, and opening those containing the -latest arrivals, supposing you were interested to look, would allow you -to gaze upon the last of that strange chemical formula which once -functioned as a human being here on earth. The faces! The decay! The -clothing! I stared in sad horror and promised myself that I would never -again look, but duty to the paper compelled me so to do again and again. - -And then there was Bellevue itself, that gray-black collection of brick -and stone with connecting bridges of iron, which faced, in winter time -at least, the gray, icy waters of the East River. I have never been able -to forget it, so drear and bleak was it all. The hobbling ghouls of -caretakers in their baggy brown cotton suits to be seen wandering here -and there or hovering over stoves; the large number of half-well charity -patients idling about in gray-green denim, their faces sunken and -pinched, their hair poorly combed! And the chipper and yet often coarse -and vulgar and always overbearing young doctors and nurses and paid -attendants generally! One need but remember that it was the heyday of -the most corrupt period of Tammany Hall’s shameless political control of -New York, Mr. Croker being still in charge. Quite all of those old -buildings have since been replaced and surrounded by a tall iron fence -and bordered with an attractive lawn. In those days it was a little -different: there was the hospital proper, with its various wards, its -detention hospital for the criminal or insane, or both, the morgue and a -world of smaller pavilions stretching along the riverfront and connected -by walks or covered hallways or iron bridges, but lacking the dignity -and care of the later structures. There was, too, the dark psychology -which attends any badly or foully managed institution, that something -which hovers as a cloud over all. And Bellevue at that time had that air -and that psychology. It smacked more of a jail and a poor-house combined -than of a hospital, and so it was, I think. At that time it was a -seething world of medical and political and social graft, a kind of -human hell or sty. Those poor fish who live in comfortable and protected -homes and find their little theories and religious beliefs ready-made -for them in some overawing church or social atmosphere, should be -permitted to take an occasional peep into a world such as this was then. -At this very time there was an investigation and an exposure on in -connection with this institution, which had revealed not only the murder -of helpless patients but the usual graft in connection with food, drugs, -clothing, etc., furnished to the patients called charity. Grafting -officials and medics and brutes of nurses and attendants abounded, of -course. The number of “drunks” and obstreperous or complaining or -troublesome patients doped or beaten or thrown out and even killed, and -the number and quality of operations conducted by incompetent or -indifferent surgeons, was known and shown to be large. One need only -return to the legislative investigations of that date to come upon the -truth of this. - -But the place was so huge and crowded that it was like a city in itself. -For one thing, it was a dumping-ground for all the offal gathered by the -police and the charity departments, to say nothing of being a realm of -“soft snaps” for political pensioners of all kinds. On such days as -relatives and friends of charity patients or those detained by the -police were permitted to call, the permit room fairly swarmed with -people who were pushed and shunted here and there like cattle, and -always browbeaten like slaves. I myself, visiting as a stranger -subsequently, was often so treated. “Who? What’s his name? What? Whendee -come? When? Talk a little louder, can’t you? Whatsy matter with your -tongue? Over there! Over there! Out that door there!” So we came, -procured our little cards, and passed in or out. - -And the wretched creatures who were “cured” or written down well enough -to walk, and so, before a serious illness had been properly treated and -because they were not able to pay, were shunted out into the world of -the well and the strong with whom they were supposed to compete once -more and make their way. I used to see them coming and going and have -talked to scores, men and women who had never had a dollar above their -meager needs and who, once illness overtook them, had been swept into -this limbo, only to be turned out again at the end of a few weeks or -months to make their way as best they might, and really worse off than -when they came, for now they were in a weak condition physically as well -as penniless, and sometimes, as I noticed, on the day of their going the -weather was most inclement. And the old, wrinkled, washed-out clothing -doled out to them in which they were to once more wander back to the -tenements—to do what? There was a local charity organization at the -time, as there is today, but if it acted in behalf of any of these I -never saw it. They wandered away west on Twenty-sixth Street and along -First and Second Avenue, those drear, dismal, underdog streets—to where? - -But by far the most irritating of all the phases of this institution, to -me at least, were the various officials and dancing young medics and -nurses in their white uniforms, the latter too often engaged in flirting -with one another or tennis-playing or reading in some warm room, their -feet planted upon a desk the while they smoked and the while the great -institution with all its company of miserables wagged its indifferent -way. When not actually visiting their patients one could always find -them so ensconced somewhere, reading or smoking or talking or flirting. -In spite of the world of misery that was thrashing about them they were -as comfortable as may be, and to me, when bent upon unraveling the -details of some particular case, they always seemed heartless. “Oh, that -old nut? What’s interesting about him? Surely you don’t expect to dig up -anything interesting about him, do you? He’s been here three weeks now. -No; we don’t know anything about him. Don’t the records show?” Or, -supposing he had died: “I knew he couldn’t live. We couldn’t give him -the necessary attention here. He didn’t have any money, and there’s too -many here as it is. Wanta see an interesting case?” And then one might -be led in to some wretch who was out of his mind or had an illusion of -some kind. “Funny old duck, eh? But there’s no hope. He’ll be dead in a -week or so.” - -I think the most sickening thing I ever saw was cash gambling among two -young medics and a young nurse in charge of the receiving ward as to -whether the next patient to be brought in by the ambulance, which had -been sent out on a hurry accident call, would arrive alive or dead. - -“Fifty that he’s dead!” - -“Fifty that he isn’t!” - -“I say alive!” - -“I say dead!” - -“Well, hand me that stethoscope. I’m not going to be fooled by looks -this time!” - -Tearing in came the ambulance, its bell clanging, the hubs of the wheels -barely missing the walls of the entryway, and as the stretcher was -pulled out and set down on the stone step under the archway the three -pushed about and hung over, feeling the heart and looking at the eyes -and lips, now pale blue as in death, quite as one might crowd about a -curious specimen of plant or animal. - -“He’s alive!” - -“He’s dead!” - -“I say he’s alive! Look at his eyes!” to illustrate which one eye was -forced open. - -“Aw, what’s eatin’ you! Listen to his heart! Haven’t I got the stetho on -it? Listen for yourself!” - -The man was dead, but the jangle lasted a laughing minute or more, the -while he lay there; then he was removed to the morgue and the loser -compelled to “come across” or “fork over.” - -One of the internes who occasionally went out “on the wagon,” as the -ambulance was called, told me that once, having picked up a badly -injured man who had been knocked down by a car, this same ambulance on -racing with this man to the hospital had knocked down another and all -but killed him. - -“And what did you do about him?” I asked. - -“Stopped the boat and chucked him into it, of course.” - -“On top of the other one?” - -“Side by side, sure. It was a little close, though.” - -“Well, did he die?” - -“Yep. But the other one was all right. We couldn’t help it, though. It -was a life or death case for the first one.” - -“A fine deal for the merry bystander,” was all I could say. - -The very worst of all in connection with this great hospital, and I do -not care to dwell on it at too great length since it has all been -exposed before and the records are available, was this: about the -hospital, in the capacity of orderlies, doormen, gatemen, errand boys, -gardeners, and what not, were a number of down-and-out ex-patients or -pensioners of politicians so old and feeble and generally decrepit -mentally and physically as to be fit for little more than the -scrap-heap. Their main desire, in so far as I could see, was to sit in -the sun or safely within the warmth of a room and do nothing at all. If -you asked them a question their first impulse and greatest delight was -to say “Don’t know” or refer you to some one else. They were accused by -the half dozen reporters who daily foregathered here to be of the -lowest, so low indeed that they could be persuaded to do anything for a -little money. And in pursuance of this theory there was one day -propounded by a little red-headed Irish police reporter who used to hang -about there that he would bet anybody five dollars that for the sum of -fifteen dollars he could hire old Gansmuder, who was one of the -shabbiest and vilest-looking of the hospital orderlies, to kill a man. -According to him, and he had his information from one of the policemen -stationed in the hospital, Gansmuder was an ex-convict who had done ten -years’ time for a similar crime. Now old and penniless, he was here -finishing up a shameful existence, the pensioner of some politician to -whom he had rendered a service perhaps. - -At any rate here he was, and, as one of several who heard the boast in -the news-room near the gate, I joined in the shout of derision that went -up. “Rot!” “What stuff!” “Well, you’re the limit, Mickey!” However, as -events proved, it was not so much talk as fact. I was not present at the -negotiations but from amazed accounts by other newspaper men I learned -that Gansmuder, being approached by Finn and one other (Finn first, then -the two of them together), agreed for the sum of twenty-five dollars, a -part of it to be paid in advance, to lie in wait at a certain street -corner in Brooklyn for an individual of a given description and there to -strike him in such a way as to dispose of him. Of course the -negotiations went no further than this, but somehow, true or no, this -one incident has always typified the spirit of that hospital, and indeed -of all political New York, to me. It was a period of orgy and crime, and -Bellevue and the charities department constituted the back door which -gave onto the river, the asylums, the potter’s field, and all else this -side of complete chemic dissolution. - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CHAPTER LXXVII - - -WHETHER due to a naturally weak and incompetent physique or a mind which -unduly tortures itself with the evidences of a none-too-smooth working -of the creative impulse and its machinery, or whether I had merely had -my fill of reportorial work as such and could endure no more, or -whatever else might have been the cause, I finally determined to get out -of the newspaper profession entirely, come what might and cost what it -might, although just what I was to do once I was out I could not guess. -I had no trade or profession other than this, and the thought of editing -or writing for anything save a newspaper was as far from me as -engineering or painting. I did not think I could write anything beyond -newspaper news items, and with this conclusion many will no doubt be -glad to agree with me even unto this day. - -Yet out of this messy and heartless world in which I was now working I -did occasionally extract a tale that was printable, only so low was my -credit that I rarely won the privilege of writing it myself. Had I -imagined that I could write I might easily have built up stories out of -what I saw which would have shocked the souls of the magazine editors -and writers, but they would never have been published. They would have -been too low, gruesome, drab, horrible, and so beyond the view of any -current magazine or its clientele. - -Life at that time, outside the dark picture of it presented by the daily -papers, must, as I have shown, be all sweetness and gayety and humor. We -must discuss only our better selves, and arrive at a happy ending; or if -perchance this realer world must be referred to it must be indicated in -some cloudy manner which would give it more the charm of shadow than of -fact, something used to enhance the values of the lighter and more -perfect and beautiful things with which our lives must concern -themselves. Marriage, if I read the current magazines correctly, was a -sweet and delicate affair, never marred by the slightest erratic conduct -of any kind. Love was made in heaven and lasted forever. Ministers, -doctors, lawyers and merchants, were all good men, rarely if ever guilty -of the shams and subterfuges and trashy aspects of humanity. If a man -did an evil thing it was due to his lower nature, which really had -nothing to do with his higher—and it was a great concession for the -intelligentsia of that day (maybe of this) to admit that he had two -natures, one of which was not high. Most of us had only the higher one, -our better nature.... When I think of the literary and social snobbery -and bosh of that day, its utter futility and profound faith in its own -goodness, as opposed to facts of its own visible life, I have to smile. - -But it never occurred to me that I could write, in the literary sense, -and as for editing, I never even thought of it. And yet that was the -very next thing I did. I wandered about thinking what I was to do, -deciding each day that if I had the courage of a rat I would no longer -endure this time-consuming game of reporting, for the pitiful sum which -I was allowed to draw. What more could it do for me? I asked myself over -and over. Make me more aware of the brutality, subtlety, force, charm, -selfishness of life? It could not if I worked a hundred years. -Essentially, as I even then saw, it was a boy’s game, and I was slowly -but surely passing out of the boy stage. Yet in desperation because I -saw disappearing the amount which I had saved up in Pittsburgh, and I -had not one other thing in sight, I visited other newspaper offices to -see if I could not secure, temporarily at least, a better regular -salary. But no. Whenever I could get in to see a city or managing -editor, which was rare, no one seemed to want me. At the offices of the -_Herald_, _Times_, _Tribune_, _Sun_, and elsewhere the same outer office -system worked to keep me out, and I was by now too indifferent to the -reportorial work and too discouraged really to wish to force myself in -or to continue as a reporter at all. Indeed I went about this matter of -inquiry more or less perfunctorily, not really believing in either -myself or my work. If I had secured a well-paying position I presume -that I should have continued. Fortunately or unfortunately, as one -chooses to look at such things, I did not; but it seemed far from -fortunate then to me. - -Finally one Saturday afternoon, having brought in a story which related -to a missing girl whose body was found at the morgue and being told to -“give the facts to —— and let him write it,” I summoned up sufficient -courage to say to the assistant who ordered me to do this: - -“I don’t see why I should always have to do this. I’m not a beginner in -this game. I wrote stories, and big ones, before ever I came to this -paper.” - -“Maybe you did,” he replied rather sardonically, “but we have the -feeling that you haven’t proved to be of much use to us.” - -After this there was nothing to say and but one thing to do. I could not -say that I had had no opportunities; but just the same I was terribly -hurt in my pride. Without knowing what to do or where to go, I there and -then decided that, come what might, this was the end of newspaper -reporting for me. Never again, if I died in the fight, would I -condescend to be a reporter on any paper. I might starve, but if so—I -would starve. Either I was going to get something different, something -more profitable to my mind, or I was going to starve or get out of New -York. - -I went to the assistant and turned over my data, then got my hat and -went out. I felt that I should be dismissed eventually anyhow for -incompetence and insubordination, so dark was my mood in regard to all -of it, and so out I went. One thing I did do; I visited the man who had -first ordered the city editor to put me on and submitted to him various -clippings of work done in Pittsburgh with the request that he advise me -as to where I might turn for work. - -“Better try the _Sun_,” was his sane advice. “It’s a great school, and -you might do well over there.” - -But although I tried I could not get on the _Sun_—not, at least, before -I had managed to do something else. - -Thus ended my newspaper experiences, which I never resumed save as a -writer of Sunday specials, and then under entirely different -conditions—but that was ten years later. In the meantime I was now -perforce turning toward a world which had never seemed to contain any -future for me, and I was doing it without really knowing it. But that is -another story. It might be related under some such title as _Literary -Experiences_. - - * * * * * - -_N.B._ Four years later, having by then established myself sufficiently -to pay the rent of an apartment, secure furniture and convince myself -that I could make a living for two, I undertook that perilous adventure -with the lady of my choice—and that, of course, after the first flare of -love had thinned down to the pale flame of duty. Need anything more be -said? The first law of convention had been obeyed, whereas the governing -forces of temperament had been overridden—and with what results -eventually you may well suspect. So much for romance. - - - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -● Transcriber’s note: - - ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. - - ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. - - ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only - when a predominant form was found in this book. - - ○ The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in - the public domain. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF*** - - -******* This file should be named 62995-0.txt or 62995-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/2/9/9/62995 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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