The New Boy at Hilltop, and Other Stories

"Anyhow," he said quite strongly and with an approach to his old air of self-importance, "anyhow—I guess I won—for Harvard—to-day. Huh?"

"Yes, you did, Patsy," answered Fosgill. "We've got you to thank for it, dear little kid."

Patsy smiled. Then:

"Good-by—Bull," he said very softly. His eyes half closed.

We waited in silence while the moments crept by, but Patsy didn't speak again.

HIS FIRST ASSIGNMENT

Tom Collins read again the inscription on the directory at the foot of the stairs:

Room 36 City Editor and Reporters

glanced again toward the elevator, again drew his letter of introduction from his pocket, and—again retreated to the doorway. Once more his heart had failed him.

The result of the impending interview with the city editor of the Washington Evening World meant so much to him that he feared to meet it. Another failure and—what? Surely not starvation. To a youth of nineteen, normally healthy and hopeful, the idea of starvation in a great city, surrounded by thousands of human beings, seems preposterous. And yet when the few coins yet remaining in his pocket were gone he would be absolutely at the end of his resources; unless—unless fortune favored him in the next few minutes. He had tried every newspaper office in the city with disheartening results; every office save this one. He reread, perhaps for the twentieth time, the letter he held, then placed it back in its envelope with a sigh. The words sounded so empty and perfunctory, the World was such a big paper, his own ignorance was so great, and—and he was discouraged. However—

He thrust the letter back into his pocket, jammed his cap resolutely onto his head, and strode determinedly to the elevator.

"City editor," he announced gruffly.

Room 36 seemed acres big to Tom as he closed the door behind him. Some dozen men and youths occupied the apartments and to the nearest of these Tom applied. He was not much over Tom's age and was busily engaged in cutting a newspaper into shreds with a pair of extraordinarily large shears. When interrupted he looked up carelessly but good naturedly and pointed to a far corner of the room.

"That's the city ed; the fellow with the glasses."

Tom thanked him and went on.

The man with the glasses took no notice of his approach but continued his writing, puffing the while on a very black briar pipe. He was apparently about thirty-five years of age, had a fierce and bristling mustache, and rushed his pencil vindictively across the copy paper as though he were writing the death sentence of his worst enemy.

"Well?"

Tom started. The voice was as savage as the man's appearance, and Tom's heart sank within him.

"What do you want?" The editor's forehead was a mass of wrinkles and his eyes glared threateningly from behind his glasses. Tom found his voice and laid the letter on the desk.

"Humph," said the editor. He read the short message and tossed it aside.

"Ever done newspaper work?" he asked.

"No, sir," Tom replied.

"Then what do you want to begin for?"

"To make a living."

"Oh," sneered the editor, "thought perhaps you wanted to elevate the press.

You're a college graduate, of course?"

"I went to college for a year and a half, sir; I had to leave then."

The editor's face brightened.

"Did they throw you out?"

"No, I—I had no money left; my father died very suddenly, and—and so I had to leave."

"Too bad; if you'd been fired there might have been some hope for you." Tom tried to detect a smile somewhere on the frowning face; there was none. "So you think you can do newspaper reporting, do you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Of course you do! I never found a college boy yet that wasn't plumb sure he could start right in on fifteen minutes' notice and beat Horace Greeley or old man Dana. It's so easy!"

"I don't think that," answered Tom, "but I think I could do reporting— after a day or two. I'm ignorant as to the exact duties of a reporter, but I can learn, and I can write English."

"But can you find out what other reporters can't? Can you interview the last new senator in town and make him tell you what he wouldn't have printed for a year's salary? Can you do that?" Tom hesitated; but he was gaining courage, and the other's gibes were slowly arousing his resentment.

"If those things can be done by other fellows, I can do them."

"Well, you've got confidence," acknowledged the editor, grudgingly. "But we don't break new men in here on the World; we wait until they have learned somewhere else, then we offer them a better salary; those are our methods. You go to work on the Despatch or the Star, or somewhere, and when you prove that you can do as good work as three or four men on our staff you'll hear from us."

The city editor went back to his pencil. Plainly the interview was at an end. Tom turned away. "Good day, sir," he muttered. There was a lump in his throat and his hand, seeking refuge in his pocket, closed on the half dozen coins. He turned suddenly and faced the city editor again.

"Look here," he said doggedly, "I've got a right to better treatment than you have given me. I handed you a letter of introduction that ought to have a little weight, and—and even if it hasn't, it entitles me to common courtesy from you. I'm not a beggar asking for alms. All I want is a chance to show that I can do your work decently. I don't even ask any pay, I—I—"

Tom's words died away. After all, what was the use? He had his answer and there could be no benefit gained from prolonging the interview. But the city editor was looking at him curiously now.

"Here, hold on there," he commanded, and when Tom again faced him: "If you'd brought me a letter from Queen Victoria or the Angel Gabriel you'd have gotten the same treatment. I talk to an average of ten men like you every day of my life; young chaps who don't know what a newspaper's run for; who don't care, either. They think reporting or editing is a nice easy way to make a living, and so they come here expecting to fall into a position. They don't get it. But when a fellow shows sense I give him a chance. And I'll give you one. Hold on," he continued as Tom opened his mouth to thank him, "I'm not offering you a place; I'm not even giving you a fair deal."

He paused and took a card from a drawer, scowling more than ever.

"Write your name there and send it up to Senator August at the Hotel Torrence. If he sees you, interview him on the decision of last night's conference; find out whether they agreed on a nominee. You read the papers? Then you'll know what we're after. Now there's your chance, just a bare fighting chance; do you want it?" The card held the single line "For The Washington Evening World." Tom put it in his pocket.

"I know how desperate the chance is, sir, and I'll take it. And—and thank you."

"All right. And remember that the last edition goes to press at five o'clock," he added grimly.

As Tom passed out the youth by the railing had stopped cutting up newspapers and was writing as though his very life depended upon it. When he reached the street Tom remembered that he might have used the elevator.

"Senator August left ten minutes ago," said the hotel clerk affably as he caught sight of the inscription on the card which Tom Collins held. "A new reporter," he added to himself.

"Left?" echoed Tom in dismay. "Where has he gone?"

"New York, I think. Went to the depot for the 2.20."

Tom glanced at the clock. Another moment and he was boarding a passing car. He had six minutes to catch the 2.20. His chances of success were slim. For that matter, thought Tom, the whole undertaking was the merest forlorn hope; not even the fighting chance that the city editor of the World had called it. For supposing that he found Senator August and got speech with him, was it likely that he would tell an inexperienced chap like Tom what the best reporters in Washington had failed to worm out of him?