Part 11 (1/2)

Among the boarders one of those I found most interesting was a young man named Kalender, by whom I sat at the first meal after my arrival, and with whom I struck up an acquaintance. He was a reporter for a morning paper of very advanced methods, and he was pre-eminently a person fitted for his position: a c.o.c.ky youth with a long, keen nose and a bullet head covered with rather wiry, black hair, heavy black brows over keen black eyes, and an ugly mouth with rather small yellowish teeth. He had as absolute confidence in himself as any youth I ever met, and he either had, or made a good pretence of having, an intimate knowledge of not only all the public affairs of the city, but of the private affairs of every one in the city. Before we had finished smoking our cigarettes he had given me what he termed ”the lay out” of the entire community, and by his account it was ”the rottenest ---- town in the universe”--a view I subsequently had reason to rectify--and he proposed to get out of it as soon as he could and go to New York, which, to his mind, was the only town worth living in in the country (he having, as I learned later, lived there just three weeks).

His paper, he said frankly, paid only for sensational articles, and was just then ”jumping on a lot of the high-flyers, because that paid,” but ”they” gave him a lat.i.tude to write up whatever he pleased, because they knew he could dress up anything--from a murder to a missionary meeting.

”Oh! it don't matter what you write about,” said he airily, ”so you know how to do it”--a bit of criticism suggestive of a better-known critic.

I was much impressed by his extraordinary and extensive experience. In the course of our conversation I mentioned casually the episode of the delayed train and the private car.

”The Argands' car, you say?”

I told him that that was what some one had said.

”That would make a good story,” he declared. ”I think I'll write that up--I'd have all the babies dying and the mothers fainting and an accident just barely averted by a little girl waving a red shawl, see--while the Argand car dashed by with a party eating and drinking and throwing champagne-bottles out of the window. But I've got to go and see the Mayor to ascertain why he appointed the new city comptroller, and then I've got to drop by the theatre and give the new play a roast--so I'll hardly have time to roast those Argands and Leighs, though I'd like to do it to teach them not to refuse me round-trip pa.s.ses next time I ask for them. I tell you what you do,” he added, modestly, ”you write it up--you say you have written for the press?”

”Oh! yes, very often--and for the magazines. I have had stories published in----”

”Well, that's all right.” (Kalender was not a good listener.) ”I'll look it over and touch it up--put the fire in it and polish it off. You write it up, say--about a column. I can cut it down all right--and I'll call by here for it about eleven, after the theatre.”

It was a cool request--coolly made; but I was fool enough to accede to it. I felt much aggrieved over the treatment of us by the railway company, and was not sorry to air my grievance at the same time that I secured a possible opening. I accordingly spent all the afternoon writing my account of the inconvenience and distress occasioned the travelling public by the inconsiderateness of the railway management, discussing, by the way, the fundamental principle of owners.h.i.+p in quasi-public corporations, and showing that all rights which they claimed were derived from the people. I mentioned no names and veiled my allusions; but I paid a tribute to the kind heart of the Angel of Mercy who succored the children. I spent some hours at my composition and took much pride in it when completed. Then, as I had not been out at all to see the town, I addressed the envelope in which I had placed my story to Mr. Kalender, and leaving it for him, walked out into the wilderness.

On my return the paper was gone.

Next morning I picked up one paper after another, but did not at first find my contribution. An account of a grand ball the night before, at which an extraordinary display of wealth must have been made, was given the prominent place in most of them. But as I did not know the persons whose costumes were described with such Byzantine richness of vocabulary, I pa.s.sed it by. The only thing referring to a railway journey was a column article, in a sensational sheet called _The Trumpet_, headed, BRUTALITY OF MILLIONAIRE BANKER. RAILWAY PRESIDENT STARVES POOR Pa.s.sENGERS. There under these glaring headlines, I at last discovered my article, so distorted and mutilated as to be scarcely recognizable. The main facts of the delay and its cause were there as I wrote them. My discussion of derivative rights was retained. But the motive was boldly declared to be brutal hatred of the poor. And to make it worse, the names of both Mr. Leigh and Mrs. Argand were given as having been present in person, gloating over the misery they had caused, while a young lady, whose name was not given, had thrown sc.r.a.ps out of the window for starving children and dogs to scramble for.

To say that I was angry expresses but a small part of the truth. The allusion to the young lady had made my blood boil. What would she think if she should know I had had a hand in that paper? I waited at red heat for my young man, and had he appeared before I cooled down, he would have paid for the liberty he took with me. When he did appear, however, he was so innocent of having offended me that I could scarcely bear to attack him.

”Well, did you see our story?” he asked gayly.

”Yes--your story--I saw----”

”Well, I had to do a little to it to make it go,” he said condescendingly, ”but you did very well--you'll learn.”

”Thank you. I don't want to learn that,” I said hotly, ”I never saw anything so butchered. There was not the slightest foundation for all that rot--it was made up out of whole cloth.” I was boiling about Miss Leigh.

”Pooh-pooh! My dear boy, you'll never make an editor. I never fake an interview,” he said virtuously. ”Lots of fellows do; but I don't. But if a man will give me two lines, I can give him two columns--and good ones, too. Why, we had two extras--what with that and the grand ball last night. The newsboys are crying it all over town.”

”I don't care if they are. I don't want to be an editor if one has to tell such atrocious lies as that. But I don't believe editors have to do that, and I know reputable editors don't. Why, you have named a man who was a hundred miles away.”

He simply laughed.

”Well, I'm quite willing to get the credit of that paper. That's business. We're trying to break down the Leigh interests, and the Argands are mixed up with 'em. Coll McSheen was in the office last night. He's counsel for the Argands, but--you don't know Coll McSheen?”

”I do not,” I said shortly.

”He's deep. You know you write better than you talk,” he added patronizingly. ”I tell you what I'll do--if you'll write me every day on some live topic----”

”I'll never write you a line again on any topic, alive or dead, unless you die yourself, when I'll write that you are the biggest liar I ever saw except my Jeams.”

I had expected he would resent my words, but he did not. He only laughed, and said, ”That's a good line. Write on that.”