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THE STOLEN STORY

By Jesse Lynch Williams

HEY had warned Billy Woods so often before and had not yet discharged him that the rest of the staff believed they never would. This was reasonable, because there was only one Billy Woods, and the newspapers that wanted geniuses were many.

Woods wore glasses that slid down his nose, and he was a born reporter. He had an absent-minded manner that went well with the glasses, but his nose for news was the best on Park Row.

The first impression he gave was of unpractical guilelessness, but he could ask a greater number of intelligent questions about a greater variety of interests than three average reporters, and they are all pretty good at it. He had the power of making anybody talk. The busiest bank presidents and the crustiest lawyers opened their mouths for him quite as readily as East Side saloon-keepers. If there was news to be had Woods could dig it out; and after he got it he knew how to handle it. These two qualities don't always go together.

Woods had been taken on the staff of The Day as a cub reporter, fresh from college, and altogether ignorant of what the word "news" meant. Since then he had never seen fit to leave off reporting for a place at the copy-reading desk, or even to become assistant city editor, because reporting was not only more pleasurable but decidedly more profitable. He led as unmonotonous a life as anyone in town, and his space bills averaged nearly three times as much as an ordinary copy-reader's salary and fully twice that of the assistant city editor-not to speak of his fame as being the star reporter of The Day.

Many other newspapers wanted him to be their star man. There was a very large standing offer from one of these, but he always refused because it would be such a bother to overhaul and clear out the draw

ers of his desk and also because The Day was the best newspaper in the country to stick to. There was a saying along the Row, borne out by fact, that a Day man was fixed for life if he minded his business and kept sober till the paper went to press. But this latter was very difficult for Billy Woods, and that was the reason dust was on his desk and the men were talking about him this morning. This morning meant 12.30 P.M., and the reporters were arriving for the day's work. Some of them were just out of bed and were waiting to be sent off on their first assignments before getting breakfast.

"There'll be the devil to pay when he comes back this time," said the man with the high collar.

"Oh, I don't know," said the one on the desk, swinging his legs. "This is only the fourth day. That time last year he was gone a week, and they told him they would have to fire him, and Billy bobbed his head and agreed with all they said about him; and, as usual, they told him they'd give him one more trial."

"Yes," said the man with his feet on the chair, "but that was a whole year nearer his first offence."

"Besides," the high collar went on, knowingly, "no matter how absent-minded he was he never fell down on his story before. At first they thought he had merely forgotten that we go to press early on Saturday nights he has to be reminded every time,

you

know--but when it got later and later, everybody began to guess what was the matter, though nobody wanted to say so. You ought to have heard them swear-I was doing the long wait that night-when they finally locked up and went to press with only the flimsy' story that had it five killed instead of nine." In newspaper offices flimsy means News Bureau reports. "Of course," the reporter added, “they corrected that in the later editions with a lift from The Press, but you know what a botch of a story it was. They sent me out for the steamboat company's end of it, but

everybody had gone to bed and didn't know any boiler had exploded till I woke 'em up and told them."

The leg-swinger remarked: "He was all right all afternoon and all evening. In fact, he'd been trying hard to be good for several months, hadn't he? but then you know his way. Probably began by deciding it was cold going down the bay on the tug." "You're mistaken," said somebody in a confident tone from a near-by desk. This was Sampson, one of the older men, who was clipping his space from the morning paper, and had not been in the conversation before." Billy Woods did not start in on the way down. He never drinks when out on a story, except after he's got his facts. You know that. What's more, I've good reason for believing that a certain cur from a certain paper got him drunk on the way home after Billy had written his story in the cabin-deliberately. Let me tell you what one of the other fellows on that tug told me last night." But he did not tell, for just then the city editor called out " Sampson," and this reporter tossed down his scissors and went up to the desk to take an assignment.

"Good-morning. Who's that you're talking about?" Another reporter had joined the group, taking off his coat.

"Billy Woods."

"Why, I saw him a minute ago in the drug store drinking bromo-seltzer. Here he is now."

Woods was bending over the latch of the little gate that kept those who had no right to go inside from those who had.

just in with an important piece of news instead of the remnants of a four days' spree. Jones and one of the others, pretending to look for mucilage, sauntered up the room to hear what would take place.

As soon as Sampson started off, without waiting for Mr. White, the city editor, to turn to him, Billy Woods said, "Well, sir, there were nine persons killed down the bay there."

News that is four days old is rather ancient history for a city editor to recall immediately and, at first, Mr. White looked puzzled. Then he said," Mr. Woods, Mr. Manning wants to see you, I believe,” and the city editor bent over his clippings again. He did not usually call Billy "Mr. Woods."

Woods knew what that meant, but he only said, "Yes, sir," and, holding his body very erect, walked over to the managing editor's desk. It was in the same room.

Mr. Manning spoke a few brief sentences which the other reporters could not distinguish, though they could hear Billy saying, "Yes, sir," every now and then; "That's so," "Yes, I agree with you," and finally, "Good-by, sir ;" and in a little over a minute Billy Woods marched down the room and out of the gate no longer a member of The Day's staff. Newspaper editors have no superfluous time to spend, even upon geniuses.

II

WOODS was now completely sober for the first time in four days.

He could turn either up or down the Row, he knew, and get a new position in the first newspaper office he came to. But to be discharged for intoxication meant more to Woods than even his intimate friends imagined. It had made him a great deal soberer than he cared to be, and before he reached the foot of the stairs he had made up his mind what to do about it. It was not to a newspaper office that he turned. He still had some money

The gate went shut with a click behind him and, looking scholarly and dignified, he marched straight up the room for the city editor's desk, rapping the floor with his cane at every two steps. His glasses were tipped forward at an angle so that he had to elevate his chin to focus through them, and he did not even see his friends as he strode up between the rows of desks, hurrying with his whole body. "R-E-morse," said Jones, with the high left. But, as it chanced, he did not carry

collar.

Sampson was still standing beside the city editor, listening to instructions as to the style of story wanted about the sanitary condition of Ludlow Street Jail; so Woods had to wait. The men down at the other end of the room observed him frowning as though

out his intention.

Things move so quickly in Newspaper Row. The news of Woods's dismissai had permeated the entire room before he was quite out of it. Before he was down the stairs a certain mature-faced office-boy had stolen unobserved to the telephone closet,

carefully closed the door and called up the city editor of The Earth.

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Is that you, Mr. McCarthy?" said the boy in The Day office, glancing behind him to see that no one was watching him through the sound-proof glass door. "Hello, Mr. McCarthy, you know who this isyes. Well, B. W. turned up, and dey give him de grand t'row down-what? Yes, just now, just dis minute-what? I don't know where he went.-Naw, I couldn't sneak downstairs after him. I'm scared to death now-I say I'm scared to death now dat dey's getting onto me here. No, he was sober-Yes, if you hurry. All right, yes, sir. Good-by."

Then, the office-boy rang off, and walked out and began throwing spit-balls, made of copy paper, at the other office-boys, while in the city room of The Earth Mr. McCarthy was speaking rapidly to two men hastily summoned to his desk:

“You'll find him some place along the Row. Maybe he hasn't any money; in that case he won't get drunk, but I think he'll wander 'round awhile before he looks for a job. Let's see if he's plenty of money he'll probably go to the café, you know; but more likely you'll find him at Andy's. Munson, you go to Andy's. Murphy, you go to the other place. Jolly him up if he doesn't want to join us-promise him any amount of money (I hope he's hard up); he can't hold you to it, you know-anything to get him here before he's gobbled up by somebody else. Now, then, hurry on. Wait a minute. See here, don't make him drunk unless necessary. I've got a big story waiting for him."

It was just four minutes later that Munson was saying, effusively, "Why, hello, Billy, glad to see you, old man; didn't expect to see you in here this time a day. Great old time coming up on the tug last Saturday night-hey? Say, what're you doing, eating breakfast here all alone?"

It was very lonely. Every one else in town was busy and Woods had had but one drink.

In less than half an hour from the time Woods was dismissed from The Day's staff he was a member of The Earth's, and it took but one more round of drinks, for which Woods himself paid, though Munson put down in his next week's expense account: "To getting Woods in condition

to join staff, $1.75," which was O. K.'d without question.

This newspaper hated The Day with loud, outspoken hatred, as bad boys hate. But it loved The Day's men. That may have been one of the reasons.

When it could The Earth lured away The Day's crack men with golden promises, gave them unlimited space and Earthly assignments, thereby demoralizing their English and their self-respect until they became ordinary reporters, and then they were used like ordinary reporters.

It was not a nice newspaper, but it was an exceedingly enterprising one. Perhaps it did not always overhaul every item of news as carefully as The Day, but it had more occasions for congratulating itself on "exclusive news," as they call beats in the editorial column.

It so happened that a valuable tip had come into the office a few minutes before, which, if worked in the right way, would result in an "article" on the first page calculated to make the public set down its coffee-cup and pick up the paper with both hands. And, what would be a source of greater delight to McCarthy and his crew, it would make all the rest of Newspaper Row writhe in impotent fury at being so badly beaten.

It was such a precious gem of a tip that the city editor fairly trembled as he whispered about it. There was reason for his being excited. The newly appointed municipal official that gave out the tip-in the form of a twenty-word statement—to an Earth reporter, did so, only because he believed the latter when he promised to tell all the other newspapers about it. This shows what a new official he was. suggests that a great deal of carefulness would be required to work up the story.

It also

"There isn't a man here that can handle that story right," the managing editor said. That was five minutes before Woods left The Day office. About three minutes after he came to The Earth's office (all this shows how things hurry, you remember) McCarthy was saying: "Well, Mr. Woods, what do you think of that for a story to start on! "

The instant McCarthy left off promising him great things and began to tell about this piece of news Woods had left off sullenly comparing this city editor with Mr.

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Cover it thoroughly, Mr. Woods. Make one of your artistic stories of it. Don't try to round it up by to-night. Take two days to it. The Commissioner's out of town, so none of the other papers will

But Woods was half way down the room, and his head was tipped back. It was less than an hour since he had stalked out of The Day office with the same gait, but he had forgotten all about that now. He had forgotten how he had intended to make himself forget. He was keenly and joyously alive, and every faculty was hot for work and glowing with the delicious excitement of one hurrying to perform a big feat that he is confident of doing well. This thing is a form of intoxication, too, though it is not usually called that.

First he ran across to City Hall and sauntered into the Mayor's office and had a talk with the Mayor's private secretary, who called him Billy, and asked what he could do for him to-day. Here Woods talked arrogantly and found out what had been the Mayor's attitude at a certain hearing a month before. Then he jumped on a Broadway cable-car and went down to Wall Street to catch the president of a certain large corporation before he went out to luncheon. It was nearly two o'clock, but Woods knew something of the habits of all prominent New Yorkers, and this one lunched late.

"Just gone a few minutes ago," said the boy, and then Woods slammed the door and remembered this was Wednesday and that the old gentleman had to finish his luncheon in time for the meeting of the Rapid Transit Commission at three o'clock. "I could have caught him on the way the club," he whispered to himself and cursed his stupidity all the way back to the Equitable and up the elevator to the Lawyers' Club.

into

There were several other men in the neighborhood of The Street to be seen, but he did not stop now because the whole story hung on this President's statement. And it was necessary to bag him before the Rapid Transit Commission meeting, because immediately after it the old gentleman would take a train for his place in the country and play golf.

But of course he did not interrupt the president at luncheon. That would have killed the story. But he sent his card to the steward, whom he knew well and who, at Woods's request, sent out the head waiter of the white and gold room. From him Woods found out that the president had a friend lunching with him, that he had sent down a larger order than usual to-day, with claret instead of ale, and was now only finishing the oysters. So Woods knew he had no other engagement before the Rapid Transit meeting at three and it would be safe to leave him for threequarters of an hour.

He hurried down to Wall Street again and called upon five lawyers. Woods hated lawyers. But he was lucky enough to find on the first trial two of them unengaged as well as in, and on the second trial he caught a third and he found out just what he wanted. Most reporters would have secured nothing. It required talent.

It was a quarter before three at the Lawyers' Club when the president lighted a big black cigar and signed a check for it. Billy Woods, waiting for him by the elevator, had the satisfaction of seeing the man that had lunched with him step across the reception-room to the library and the further satisfaction of noting by the clock that the president would not have to hurry to the meeting. Little things of this sort often mean a column or two.

The dignified president was feeling good after his luncheon and his success at making his guest see the wisdom of a certain plan of reorganization. He shook Billy's hand almost jovially and said, "Well, my boy," to him. They walked up Broadway together. The old gentleman was deaf and Billy shouted at him.

After spending the time between the Equitable and Maiden Lane in trying apparently to make the pleasant-mooded old gentleman admit a certain state of affairs in regard to a certain franchise, which he

wouldn't, Woods employed the remainder of their walk in extracting a number of strong, emphatic statements from him to the contrary, which was exactly what Woods wanted. And he naively said so as they bade each other good-by, "only they claim, you know, sir, that they have a perfect legal right to do it."

They claim! the damned lying thieves! they'd claim the whole of Manhattan Island if they could." Only, this remark Billy was considerate enough to leave out of his interview, for it would not have looked well in type with this benevolent old gentleman's quotation marks about it. Besides the president had been stirred to indigestion as it was, and deserved to be spared further discomfort out of gratitude. For from him Woods had obtained a succinct statement of facts-which he was now rapidly writing down, word for word, by a Broadway corner lamp-post-a perfect crowbar of a statement it was, with which Billy could prod and pry out the whole of the story and without which he could have done nothing. The story was practically secured now. The rest was only a matter of time for Woods.

There were nearly a dozen persons of various walks of life and degrees of importance that he had to see, and it was now three o'clock. He had not heard what McCarthy said about taking two days to the story and, being a Day man, would not have done so if he had. He had forgotten to lunch. He stepped into a cigarstore, turned the pages of the directory over rapidly several times and then started out.

At ten o'clock that evening he sighed and said, "Well, that's the last. That covers it." He had just hurried down some stone steps in Seventieth Street and was making for the Seventy-second Street "L" station. He had forgotten to dine.

He outlined his story on the half-hour trip downtown. He was so intent that he did not hear the guard call out any of the stations. When the train turned the sharp little curve into Murray Street, he arose automatically, walked to the door, then stepped out when the train stopped at Park Place, loped down the stairs just as he had done hundreds of times before, and hurried up toward City Hall Park. He was planning his introduction now. He prided himself on the reserve of his introductions.

He did not hear a few belated newsboys crying sporting editions in the park or see the indigent and sleepy ones on the benches about the fountain. He hurried across the street and mechanically dodged a clanging Third Avenue cable-car, smiling to himself as a fetching opening sentence flashed into his mind. Then, like a homing pigeon, he darted in at the familiar doorway of The Day; ran up the stairs two steps at a time, unlatched the gate, hurried down to his old desk, swore at somebody's coat lying there, threw it upon another desk, sat down and began to write like nothing in the world but a reporter with a tremendous beat, who knows only that the paper goes to press within three hours.

III

WHEN Mr. Stone, the night city editor of The Day, had come on at 5.30 o'clock to take the desk, the first thing Mr. White said to him was "Billy's gone at last."

Stone took out his pipe and said “Too bad," which was a good deal for the night city editor to say; then he put it back again and went over the assignment list with White.

The copy-readers began gathering in now and they also said "Too bad." But they had considerably more to say than this; for the story about the trip up the bay in the tug and the Earth reporter who had made Billy drunk had spread through the office since Woods's departure, and every one had something to say in terse newspaper style about that sort of journalism. Then each sat down before a little pile of copy and began his night's work. This was about the time most of the town was sitting down to its dinner.

At twenty minutes before eleven the Police Headquarters man sent in by telephone a bunch of precinct returns, arrests, accidents, and so on. One of them, from the Madison Street station, was about a nine-year-old boy drowned at the foot of Rutgers Street, at 10.15 P.M. It was reported that there was a possibility of its proving a suicide, and that would be good

news.

Mr. Stone turned his glistening eyeglasses down the room over the even rows of reporters' desks to see whom to send

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