BREAD ON THE WATERS.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2610, 18 September 1909, Page 2 (Supplement)

BREAD ON THE WATERS.

THE YOUNG REPORTER AND THE NEWSPAPER MAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL.

(Paul Armstrong, in ‘Collier’s Weekly.’

Willard, the city editor of the best daily paner in Chicago, became conscious of some one standing at his elbow. Growing impatient* at last, he looked up. But it was no member of the staff, nor a boy with a galley proof, nor a grouchy printer, nor, in fact, any one who had any business to be there. Instead, a youth who wanted a job. Four times in two weeks he had been told there was no chance. Yet here he was again—and this time he had “broken in.” The city editor turned fairly about to tell that youth a few things. He knew what the would-be reporter had to say. He had heard it all at least twice. He had worked on four daily papers in Michigan. He could “get a story” if anybody else could. He knew Chicago well enough not to get lost. And so on and so oil. The usual talk of a man hunting for a job. It sounded right, too, but the fact was that the city editor had about one man too many, and there waß really no chance. This he was about to impress on the applicant in his own inimitable ice-cold way when the youth spoke. There was‘a flutter in his throat, and his words were not those of assurance, self-possession, or the set speech of other days. “For God’s sake, won’t you give me an assignment—anything.” He could say no more. His voice broke on the last word, and he stood with trembling lips. The words of disapproval in the editor’s mind stood still. Emotion and newspaper work do not trave] hand in hand. It is tho beginning aud the end of game to laugh at tears, freeze pity from the heart, and mock one’s soul. And the city editor had been at the game twenty years. On none of the four occasions before when the youth had called had he betrayed any emotion. Willard had rather liked him for that if nothing else, and now — and now the lad had “let go all holds,” he had “quit.” Ho was beaten. History does not tell us that hunger was ever tried on the young Stoics of Rome. Youth will endure so long as the gnawing comes from without, but within—that’s unfair. Perhaps such a thought ripped through the mind of the coldest city editor of his time —and in all climes and times city editors have been as bloodless as the stinging sleet of a winter’s night. NeVer had Willard been moved hv hard luck stories, never had he given anything to one who had weakened. He was a part of the most merciless machine invented since the beginning of time. Hence it could not have been emotion or pity that caused him to reach toward the lead under which his assignment notes lay.' No, it must have been the hand of fate. He did not even look at the slip of paper his fingers lifted from the desk. Ho simply handed it to the starving lad and said: “What it’s worth.”

The youth could not speak. He turned away with a flush of joy that brought tears to his eyes. Some hours later he laid his copy on Willard's desk and took a seat in tho outer office. An hour passed. He was told tho city editor wanted him. He walked in and stood.

“What’s the name?” asked Willard. “Carter —George -Carter,” he replied. “Regularly,” said the editor, and turned his back to his desk.

In a year it is doubtful if the two men spoke beyond tho orders and brief conversation necessary between editor and reporter. He was a good man, and Willard saw to it that Carter got the top salary paid. Willarfl wanted to keep him, Nut another paper* sent for him.

“Go, if you can do better,” said Willard, without resentment. And Carter went. Willard realised that Carter was playing the game according to its rough and' tumble, “save himself who can” rules, and, while he was sorry to lose so good a man; admired him. ,

Years passed. They met sometimes and spoke, and that was all. Each went his way. There was never a thank you for the first assignment, never a reference. Willard was still the city editor, Carter became a star reporter. Then something happened in the newspaper world. The sensational “yellow” methods hit Chicago like hot wind. To Carter it meant a better chance and more money. He was young and learned the new trick quickly. Not so with Willard. He was past forty. He had been reared in the old legitimate school of newsgathering, and he resented the cesspool and burglar methods to his last drop of blood. It could not prevail, he) argued, and he held to his old forms. With a stubbornness born of indignation, he ran his paper “ssa gentleman should” until the circulation began to fall away. He was sent for and asked to change his methods. Ho refused 1 point-blank, and was discharged- on the spot. He went forth to find a job. But the world had (changed in the ten years he had been “holding down a

city desk.” It was the “yellow” methods, lie argued, but one day an editor dropped the word “old” in speaking ff him. Finally ho found himself at a copy desk, but it did not last, as he would not allow sensational writing to pass his blue pencil. Then he began to drift, and “poor! old Willard,” as Chicago knew him, was spoken of as a relic of other days. But his soul was resolute, and the old school dignity held him together as he tore a meagre living from the clutch of circumstances. It was all different with Carter. He became a pacemaker for sensationalists. He was made assistant, then city editor of Chicago’s biggest daily. Cold, merciless, without regard for living or dead, he played the game to the limit. Within five years from the day AVillard had given him his first chance, he had gontv as far as he thought was worth whi’e in a town of Chicago’s size. Ho quit the best job in town, and went to New York. And he went to work at once.

Not as good a job as lie had left, hut good enough for one who could master Chicago in five short years. Within six months he fixed his eye on a certain mark and began to climb to that. Willard stayed on in Chicago a year or two. Then he began to drift Eastward —be and his wife. They had been pals always, and in the twenty years since he had married her, a fresh, straight-thinking girl, they had known nothing hut love. Her belief in him was supreme. His attitude of mind toward sensationalism she shared as faithfully as his meagre bed and board. They might starve, but they would at least keep their own self-respect. Ho read copy, wrote editorials, and did everything that a man of his ago could do, but some way, somehow, something of his resentment toward the monster sensationalism which had robbed bis profession of dignity crept in until he was put down for a crank and passed along. Finally he reached New York. It was on the day that Carter reached his goal. But Willard did not know; in fact, he likely had forgotten Carter. And he began the search for work. An old man looking for a job on a newspaper. Not feeble, not helpless, not incompetent, not old, really, save to a newspaper. They remembered him, had worked with him, some for him. But he was old. That ended it. Weeks crept by—then months. He borrowed a little money, and somehow they lived—he and his wife with the soft voice and the lovelight in her eyes. Every wave must recede, and one tires of the B flat cornet as a musical instrument. Carter, in the very height of his newspaper manhood saw the coining of another age. Sensationalism had been overdone. While it was clear that newspapers would never go back to the old methods, it was just as clear that something must he done. Why hot bring back some of the old things that were good, ho argued. The idea evolved as the days went on until Carter knew exactly what he wanted. And that was a paragraplier—a good, old-time, caustic paragrapher. He laid out the space for the stuff, knew exactly how it would look, and was certain it would be read—could he but get the right man. But ivho? It was a lost art. An then the hand of fate opened his office door, and a thin, grey, old man entered. Ho stood close to the door, his hat in his hand. It was Willard, whipped at the end of five years. There was nothing of the old spirit. His wife was ill and starving, and lie had “let go all holds.” “For God’s sake, won’t you give me something to do—anything.” The words came from trembling lips. The voice broke with despair. He did not know Carter. The years had changed him. Carter’s heart stopped at the cry of tho beaten man. He reached for a copy of his paper that lay at hand and turned to the page on which he intended the paragraphs to appear. Then he picked up a pencil and drew a rude circle. “There,” he said, indicating the place. “Four columns wide, eight inches deep. Old-time paragraphs, Mr Willard, six days a week, so long as I am managing editor here and you live.”