The Salt Lake herald. [volume] (Salt Lake City [Utah]) 1870-1909, 1889-07-07


what you write may make people talk,
they will never know who it was that
wrote it. All the credit goes TO the
paper, or to John Casper Plummett, the
proprietor. And what are the rewards
of journalism? Perhaps you will make
$50 a week after while if you are clev-
er; and you may hope some time, when
you are middle aged man, to work up
to an editorial position at $50 week. /
have been here five-and-twenty years
and my salary is $40 4 week. have a
wife and four children, three of whom
take care of themselves, for which l
thank heaven, as it's not much that
could do for them. The youngest, poor
girl, is home with two fatherless little
ones; but she is welcome; don't COM
plain. only tell you what this profess
sion is that looks so attractive to you
and to other young fellows"
But look at Horace Greeley, James
Gordon Bennett, Henry j. Raymond,
Charles A. Dana and half dozen others:
what of them? They have found better
rewards than those you MENTION" re-
piled Rush, still undaunted.
ITO be sure, journalism rewarded them
well; but they are the exceptions"
"And why shouldn't be an exception?
At any rate, am eager for the fray and
willing to take the chances"
81 see you are not to be discouraged.
1 suppose you know that there is no
royal road to journalistic success-that
you will have to begin at the bottom?"
There is no royal road to any success
that have ever heard of. l am ready
to break the ground, as better men have
done before me-" And Rush buttoned
his coat and Strengthened himself up to
his full height, as though it were manual
labor with 4 crowbar and pickax that
lay before him, rather than brain work
with pen as his tool.
Come along, then" said kind old Mr.
Spar, 81 will introduce you to the city
editor. Every one has to go through his
mill. It is like that of the gods: it grinds
slowly, and it grinds exceedingly small. ="
II follow" said Rush. "Show me the
miller"
The place in which this conversation
was held was gloomy ante-room at the
head of flight of winding iron stairs.
There were half dozen people sitting
there, some writing ct a rickety round
table; others looking over the files of
newspapers on the racks; others still
coming and going on errands of various
sorts; telegraph boys, people with griev-
ances they wanted to air, cranks with
patent flying machines they insisted
upon exhibiting and indignant politi-
clans who wanted to know if the manag-
ing editor was in. To all of these the old
doorkeeper was most polite. He never
for moment lost his temper, though he
was sorely tried at times. He seemed to
know his business thoroughly, yet he
was always in doubt as to whether the
person asked for was in or not. He was
quite willing, however, to go and see, if
the gentleman would only be good
enough to tell him his name and bust
ness.
Fifty times an hour he had to unlock
the glass door that led to the mysteries
inside and closed with spring behind
him; and as often when he returned he
had to extract the keys from the depths
of his pocket ian operation which he
always performed with the air of a dis
coverer) and unlock the portal. There
was sort of plying expression in his
eyes as he ushered Mr.. Spar and Rush
through that little door; and he shook
his head doubtfully and spat mouthful
of tobacco juice on the mat as the door
clicked behind them. The narrow way
was lighted through glass partitions, but
it was only step to the city editors
room-the city editors den would best
describe it. The place was only big
enough to hold desk, a chair and a
reporter. 1t was lighted with gas,
though the time was high noon. The
editor sat at his desk and was busily en-
gagged talking with somebody at the
other end of rubber tube: "All the
Great Jones street fire copy has gone
up" he shouted. Put a display head
over it and send down galley proof Be
sure and kill The Widow Mulligans
Baby" Then, after moments listen
ing, "All right; good-by." Turning
round, he exclaimed, "Well, Mr.. Spar,
what can 1 do for you? Anything
wrong at quarantine"
mo, Mr.. Musgrave; all quiet down
there at present, though there ought to
be some news. The Catalopia is overdue.
But L came here on other business this
morning. want to introduce my young
friend, Mr.. Rush Hurlstone, of Farm
sted, who wishes to enter the ranks of
New York journalists.
Another victim, said Mr.. Musgrave,
laughing good naturally. "Tm afraid
you'll lose that healthy coloring before
you have been at this work long"
Rush looked at the slight figure and
pale face of the city editor, made paler
by dark beard and mustache, and then
at the whittier rims around his eyes, and
wondered whether journalism would
have that effect upon his robust constitu-
ton.
I'm pretty tough. 1t would take
harder than reporting to
knock me out" he replied, with the con-
fdence Of youth.
"rm pretty tough myself, or shouldn't
be alive today. So you want to be
journalist, and you are friend of Mr..
Spar? We're pretty full just now, and
there doesn't seem to be much going on.
The best can do is to give you chance
if one occurs. You may report here to-