Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3), Richard Harding Davis [best novel books to read TXT] 📗

Wrote Out What They Had Said To Him And Transmitted It,

Without Color Or Bias,  To The Clearinghouse Of The Consolidated

Press. His "Stories," As All Newspaper Writings Are Called By Men Who

Write Them,  Were As Picturesque Reading As The Quotations Of A Stock-

Ticker. The Personal Equation Appeared No More Offensively Than It

Does In A Page Of Typewriting In His Work.

 

Consequently,  He Was Dear To The Heart Of The Consolidated Press,

And,  As A "Safe" Man,  Was Sent To The Beautiful Harbor Of Santiago--

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To A Spot Where There Were War-Ships Cleared For Action,  Cubans In

Ambush,  Naked Marines Fighting For A Foothold At Guantanamo,  Palm-

Trees And Coral-Reefs--In Order That He Might Look For "Facts."

 

There Was Not A Newspaper Man Left At Key West Who Did Not Writhe

With Envy And Anger When He Heard Of It. When The Wire Was Closed For

The Night,  And They Had Gathered At Josh Kerry's,  Keating Was The

Storm-Centre Of Their Indignation.

 

"What A Chance!" They Protested. "What A Story! It's The Chance Of A

Lifetime." They Shook Their Heads Mournfully And Lashed Themselves

With Pictures Of Its Possibilities.

 

"And Just Fancy Its Being Wasted On Old Keating," Said The Journal

Man. "Why,  Everything's Likely To Happen Out There,  And Whatever Does

Happen,  He'll Make It Read Like A Congressional Record. Why,  When I

Heard Of It I Cabled The Office That If The Paper Would Send Me I'd

Not Ask For Any Salary For Six Months."

 

"And Keating's Kicking Because He Has To Go," Growled The Sun Man.

"Yes,  He Is,  I Saw Him Last Night,  And He Was Sore Because He'd Just

Moved His Wife Down Here. He Said If He'd Known This Was Coming He'd

Have Let Her Stay In New York. He Says He'll Lose Money On This

Assignment,  Having To Support Himself And His Wife In Two Different

Places."

 

Norris,  "The Star Man" Of The World,  Howled With Indignation.

 

"Good Lord!" He Said,  "Is That All He Sees In It? Why,  There Never

Was Such A Chance. I Tell You,  Some Day Soon All Of Those War-Ships

Will Let Loose At Each Other And There Will Be The Best Story That

Ever Came Over The Wire,  And If There Isn't,  It's A Regular Loaf

Anyway. It's A Picnic,  That's What It Is,  At The Expense Of The

Consolidated Press. Why,  He Ought To Pay Them To Let Him Go. Can't

You See Him,  Confound Him,  Sitting Under A Palm-Tree In White

Flannels,  With A Glass Of Jamaica Rum In His Fist,  While We're

Dodging Yellow Fever On This Coral-Reef,  And Losing Our Salaries On A

Crooked Roulette-Wheel."

 

"I Wonder What Jamaica Rum Is Like As A Steady Drink," Mused The Ex-

Baseball Reporter,  Who Had Been Converted Into A War-Correspondent By

The Purchase Of A White Yachting-Cap.

 

"It Won't Be Long Before Keating Finds Out," Said The Journal Man.

 

"Oh,  I Didn't Know That," Ventured The New Reporter,  Who Had Just

Come South From Boston. "I Thought He Didn't Drink. I Never See

Keating In Here With The Rest Of The Boys."

 

"You Wouldn't," Said Norris. "He Only Comes In Here By Himself,  And

He Drinks By Himself. He's One Of Those Confidential Drunkards,  You

Give Some Men Whiskey,  And It's Like Throwing Kerosene On A Fire,

Isn't It? It Makes Them Wave Their Arms About And Talk Loud And Break

Things,  But You Give It To Another Man And It's Like Throwing

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Kerosene On A Cork Mat. It Just Soaks In. That's What Keating Is.

He's A Sort Of A Cork Mat."

 

"I Shouldn't Think The C. P. Would Stand For That," Said The Boston

Man.

 

"It Wouldn't,  If It Ever Interfered With His Work,  But He's Never

Fallen Down On A Story Yet. And The Sort Of Stuff He Writes Is

Machine-Made; A Man Can Write C. P. Stuff In His Sleep."

 

One Of The World Men Looked Up And Laughed.

 

"I Wonder If He'll Run Across Channing Out There," He Said. The Men

At The Table Smiled,  A Kindly,  Indulgent Smile. The Name Seemed To

Act Upon Their Indignation As A Shower Upon The Close Air Of A

Summer-Day. "That's So," Said Norris. "He Wrote Me Last Month From

Port-Au-Prince That He Was Moving On To Jamaica. He Wrote Me From

That Club There At The End Of The Wharf. He Said He Was At That

Moment Introducing The President To A New Cocktail,  And As He Had No

Money To Pay His Passage To Kingston He Was Trying To Persuade Him To

Send Him On There As His Haitian Consul. He Said In Case He Couldn't

Get Appointed Consul,  He Had An Offer To Go As Cook On A Fruit-

Tramp."

 

The Men Around The Table Laughed. It Was The Pleased,  Proud Laugh

That Flutters The Family Dinner-Table When The Infant Son And Heir

Says Something Precocious And Impudent.

 

"Who Is Channing?" Asked The Boston Man.

 

There Was A Pause,  And The Correspondents Looked At Norris.

 

"Channing Is A Sort Of A Derelict," He Said. "He Drifted Into New

York Last Christmas From The Omaha Bee. He's Been On Pretty Nearly

Every Paper In The Country."

 

"What's He Doing In Haiti?"

 

"He Went There On The Admiral Decatur To Write A Filibustering Story

About Carrying Arms Across To Cuba. Then The War Broke Out And He's

Been Trying To Get Back To Key West,  And Now,  Of Course,  He'll Make

For Kingston. He Cabled Me Yesterday,  At My Expense,  To Try And Get

Him A Job On Our Paper. If The War Hadn't Come On He Had A Plan To

Beat His Way Around The World. And He'd Have Done It,  Too. I Never

Saw A Man Who Wouldn't Help Charlie Along,  Or Lend Him A Dollar." He

Glanced At The Faces About Him And Winked At The Boston Man. "They

All Of Them Look Guilty,  Don't They?" He Said.

 

"Charlie Channing," Murmured The Baseball Reporter,  Gently,  As Though

He Were Pronouncing The Name Of A Girl. He Raised His Glass. "Here's

To Charlie Channing," He Repeated. Norris Set Down His Empty Glass

And Showed It To The Boston Man.

 

"That's His Only Enemy," He Said. "Write! Heavens,  How That Man Can

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Write,  And He'd Almost Rather Do Anything Else. There Isn't A Paper

In New York That Wasn't Glad To Get Him,  But They Couldn't Keep Him A

Week. It Was No Use Talking To Him. Talk! I've Talked To Him Until

Three O'clock In The Morning. Why,  It Was I Made Him Send His First

Chinatown Story To The International Magazine,  And They Took It Like

A Flash And Wrote Him For More,  But He Blew In The Check They Sent

Him And Didn't Even Answer Their Letter. He Said After He'd Had The

Fun Of Writing A Story,  He Didn't Care Whether It Was Published In A

Sunday Paper Or In White Vellum,  Or Never Published At All. And So

Long As He Knew He Wrote It,  He Didn't Care Whether Anyone Else Knew

It Or Not. Why,  When That English Reviewer--What's His Name--That

Friend Of Kipling's--Passed Through New York,  He Said To A Lot Of Us

At The Press Club,  'You've Got A Young Man Here On Park Row--An

Opium-Eater,  I Should Say,  By The Look Of Him,  Who If He Would Work

And Leave Whiskey Alone,  Would Make Us All Sweat.' That's Just What

He Said,  And He's The Best In England!"

 

"Charlie's A Genius," Growled The Baseball Reporter,  Defiantly. "I

Say,  He's A Genius."

 

The Boston Man Shook His Head. "My Boy," He Began,  Sententiously,

"Genius Is Nothing More Than Hard Work,  And A Man--"

 

Norris Slapped The Table With His Hand.

 

"Oh,  No,  It's Not," He Jeered,  Fiercely,  "And Don't You Go Off

Believing It Is,  Neither. I've Worked. I've Worked Twelve Hours A

Day. Keating Even Has Worked Eighteen Hours A Day--All His Life--But

We Never Wrote 'The Passing Of The Highbinders,' Nor The 'Ships That

Never Came Home,' Nor 'Tales Of The Tenderloin,' And We Never Will.

I'm A Better News-Gatherer Than Charlie,  I Can Collect Facts And I

Can Put Them Together Well Enough,  Too,  So That If A Man Starts To

Read My Story He'll Probably Follow It To The Bottom Of The Column,

And He May Turn Over The Page,  Too. But I Can't Say The Things,

Because I Can't See The Things That Charlie Sees. Why,  One Night We

Sent Him Out On A Big Railroad-Story. It Was A Beat,  We'd Got It By

Accident,  And We Had It All To Ourselves,  But Charlie Came Across A

Blind Beggar On Broadway With A Dead Dog. The Dog Had Been Run Over,

And The Blind Beggar Couldn't Find His Way Home Without Him,  And Was

Sitting On The Curb-Stone,  Weeping Over The Mongrel. Well,  When

Charlie Came Back To The Office He Said He Couldn't Find Out Anything

About That Railroad Deal,  But That He'd Write Them A Dog-Story. Of

Course,  They Were Raging Crazy,  But He Sat Down Just As Though It Was

No Concern Of His,  And,  Sure Enough,  He Wrote The Dog-Story. And The

Next Day Over Five Hundred People Stopped In At The Office On Their

Way Downtown And Left Dimes And Dollars To Buy That Man A New Dog.

Now,  Hard Work Won't Do That."

 

Keating Had Been Taking Breakfast In The Ward-Room Of H. M. S.

Indefatigable. As An Acquaintance The Officers Had Not Found Him An

Undoubted Acquisition,  But He Was The Representative Of Seven Hundred

Papers,  And When The Indefatigable's Ice-Machine Broke,  He Had Loaned

The Officers' Mess A Hundred Pounds Of It From His Own Boat.

 

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