Читать книгу My "Pardner" and I (Gray Rocks) - Willis George Emerson - Страница 11

Before Vance had time to reply, the religious editor commenced swearing about the uninteresting sermons he was compelled to write of late.

The dramatic critic observed that lie presumed writing sermons was a rather stupid business, but if the reading public could endure them, the religious editor ought to be able to, at $60 a week.

The religious editor said, “by Gad! old boy, you’re about right,” and begged a cigarette of the dramatic critic, declaring that he did not know with whom he would rather smoke than a representative of the footlights. He then slapped Vance on the shoulder in a jocular way, and asked him what made him so quiet.

“Scoops are scarce,” replied Vance, without lifting his eyes from the copy he was revising.

“Scarce!” chimed in the city editor, “I should say so. We have not had such a thing as a ‘scoop’ about the office for six months.”

“Journalism,” observed the dramatic critic, “is, without question, the king of professions. Here we see life in its every phase.”

“I am beginning to think,” said Vance, “that journalism is a drudgery without hope or reward.”

“You astonish me,” replied the religious editor. “Why, Vance,” he continued, knocking the ashes from his cigarette, “a fellow with as bright a future in the profession as you have, making such a remark as that, causes me to think you are growing cynical. Think of the opportunities which journalism affords.”

“What opportunities,” replied Vance, “have I, or you, or any other members of the staff, excepting those we have no right to take advantage of? I freely admit that there is a fascination about the profession of journalism; an influence, if you please, that holds us in the rut, much the same as the current of a mighty river—always drawing everything into the center where the current is swiftest—but the individuality of the most talented among us is completely lost in the great octopus that we are daily and nightly striving with our best efforts of brawn and brain to keep supplied with news.”

“Bravo!” shouted the police reporter. “There is not an ordinary prize-fighter in the land but has more individual reputation than any of us. Vance is about right in his position.”

At this juncture of their conversation, a note was handed to Vance. It was a polite request to report at the chief’s private room at ten o’clock the next morning. After hastily glancing over it, Vance read it aloud.

“I say, Vance, old boy, that’s a little rough; and still,” continued the religious editor, between vigorous puffs of his cigarette, “it may be a step up.”

It was an open question with members of the force whether a formal summons into the presence of the chief, without any intimation of the nature of the interview, was a good omen or otherwise.

“Possibly,” responded Vance, “but I rather surmise it is a step out.”