Think I meant next year?”
The city editor was already lost in the reading of more copy.
Inside of half an hour Jeff was at work on his first assignment. Some derelict had committed suicide under the very shadow of the City Hall. Upon the body was a note scrawled on the bask of a dirty envelope.
Sick and out of work. Notify Henry Simmons, 237 River Street, San Francisco.
Jenkins, his hands in his pockets, looked at the body indifferently and turned the story over to the cub with a nod of his head.
“Go to it. Half a stick,” he said.
From another reporter Jeff learned how much half a stick is. He wrote the account. When he had read it Jenkins glanced sharply at him. Though only the barest facts were told there was a sob in the story.
“That ain't just how we handle vag suicides, but we'll let 'er go this time,” he commented.
It did not take Jeff long to learn how to cover a story to the satisfaction of the city editor. He had only to be conventional, sensational, and in general accurate as to his facts. He fraternized with his fellow reporters at the City Hall, shared stories with them, listened to the cheerful lies they told of their exploits, and lent them money they generally forgot to return. They were a happy-go-lucky lot, full of careless generosities and Bohemian tendencies. Often a week's salary went at a single poker sitting. Most of them drank a good deal.
After a few months' experience Jeff discovered that while the gathering of news tends to sharpen the wits it makes also for the superficial. Alertness, cleverness, persistence, a nose for news, and a surface accuracy were the chief qualities demanded of him by the office. He had only to look around him to see that the profession was full of keen-eyed, nimble-witted old-young men who had never attempted to synthesize the life they were supposed to be recording and interpreting. While at work they were always in a hurry, for to-day's news is dead to-morrow. They wrote on the run, without time for thought or reflection. Knowing beyond their years, the fruit of their wisdom was cynicism. Their knowledge withered for lack of roots.
The tendency of the city desk and of copy readers is to reduce all reporters to a dead level, but in spite of this Jeff managed to get himself into his work. He brought to many stories a freshness, a point of view, an optimism that began to be noticed. From the police run Jeff drifted to other departments. He covered hotels, the court house, the state house and general assignments.
At the end of a couple of years he was promoted to a desk position. This did not suit him, and he went back to the more active work of the street. In time he became known as a star man. From dramatics he went to politics, special stories and feature work. The big assignments were given him.
It was his duty to meet famous people and interview them. The chance to get behind the scenes at the real inside story was given him. Because of this many reputations were pricked like bubbles so far as he was concerned. The mask of greatness was like the false faces children wear to conceal their own. In the one or two really big men he met Jeff discovered a humility and simplicity that came from self-forgetfulness. They were too busy with their vision of truth to pose for the public admiration.
Part 2
It was while Jeff was doing the City Hall run that there came to him one night at his rooms a man he had known in the old days when he had lived in the river bottom district. If he was surprised to see him the reporter did not show it.
“Hello, Burke! Come in. Glad to see you.”
Farnum took the hat of his guest and relieved his awkwardness by guiding him to a chair and helping him get his pipe alight.
“How's everything? Little Mike must be growing into a big boy these days. Let's see. It's three years since I've seen him.”
A momentary flicker lit the gloomy eyes of the Irishman. “He's a great boy, Mike is. He often speaks of you, Mr. Farnum.
“Glad to know it. And Mrs. Burke?”
“Fine.”
“That leaves only Patrick Burke. I suppose he hasn't fallen off the water wagon yet.”
The occupation of Burke had been a threadbare joke between them in the old days. He drove a street sprinkler for the city.
“That's what he has. McGuire threw the hooks into me this morning. I've drove me last day.”
“What's the matter?”
“I'm too damned honest … or too big a coward. Take your choice.”
“All right. I've taken it,” smiled the reporter.
Pat brought his big fist down on the table so forcefully that the books shook. “I'll not go to the penitentiary for an-ny man. … He wanted me to let him put two other teams on the rolls in my name. I wouldn't stand for it. That was six weeks ago. To-day he lets me out.”
Jeff began to see dimly the trail of the serpent graft. He lit his pipe before he spoke.
“Don't quite get the idea, Pat. Why wouldn't you?”
“Because I'm on the level. I'll have no wan tellin' little Mike his father is a dirty thief. … It's this way. The rolls were to be padded, understand.”
“I see. You were to draw pay for three teams when you've got only one.”
“McGuire was to draw it, all but a few dollars a month.” The Irishman leaned forward, his eyes blazing. “And because I wouldn't stand for it I'm fired for neglecting my duty. I missed a street yesterday. If he'd been frientlly to me I might have missed forty. … But he can't throw me down like that. I've got the goods to show he's a dirty grafter. Right now he's drawing pay for seven teams that don't exist.”
“And he doesn't know you know it?”
“You bet he don't. I've guessed it for a month. To-day I went round and made sure.”
Jeff asked questions, learned all that Burke had to tell him. In the days that followed he ran down the whole story of the graft so secretly that not even the city editor knew what he was about. Then he had a talk with the “old man” and wrote his story.
It was a red-hot exposure of one of the most flagrant of the City Hall gang. There was no question of the proof. He had it in black and white. Moreover, there was always the chance that in the row which must follow McGuire might peach on Big Tim himself, the boss of all the little bosses.
Within twenty-four hours Jeff was summoned to a conference at which were present the city editor and Warren, now managing editor.
“We've killed your story, Farnum,” announced the latter as soon as the door was closed.
“Why? I can prove every word of it.”
“That was what we were afraid of.”
“It's a peach of a story. With the spring elections coming on we need some dynamite to blow up Big Tim. I tell you McGuire would tell all he knows to save his own skin.”
“My opinion, too,” agreed Warren dryly. “My boy, it's too big a story. That's the whole trouble. If we were sure it would stop at McGuire we'd run it. But it won't. The corporations are backing Big Tim to win this spring. It won't do to get him tied up in a graft scandal.”
“But the Advocate has been out after his scalp for years.”
“Well, we're not after it any more. Of course, we're against him on the surface still.”
Jeff did some rapid thinking. “Then the program will be for us to nominate a weak ticket and elect Big Tim's by default. Is that it?”
“That's about it.