The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1894-07-01
SAY, WHAT'S TIL SCORE
A STORY THAT WILL HIGHLY IN
TEREsT BASEBALL RIOTERS.
Answer n Newspaper Office
Telephone.

One Sweltering night during the present
summer newspaper toilers In the office of a
morning journal were bent over machines
and desks trying to put in more concrete
form the gossip and news they had gathered
during the day. The railroad editor was
humping vigorously away on old-style
typewriter, fairly threshing out his copy
with all the noisy clatter of harvest scene,
now and then dropping his hands to his lap
and relapsed into an oft-hummed hymn, the
first words of which run: 20 there's a cry
from Macaroni." Away back in his boy
hood days, when the rest of the force were
many years yet unborn, the railroad editor
had heard that hymn, and had it not been
for him the hymn would have been thing
of the forgotten past decades ago.
by Dack," said he as he started again
on his thrashing, eff it want for these rail-
roads, don't know what would become of
the country" The ingenue reporter looked
up from his work in a deferential way. He
had not yet reached the familiar stage
where he could ask the railroad editor for a
pass.
somebody call up the Weather Bureau
and ask old Cold Wave how hot he's fixed
her up to-day bawled out some one from
across the room. The young reporter gave
the telephone bell whirl, but somebody
talk to the editorial rooms.
well" says the young man. "What is
It? The score? Go the office: Anybody
know what the score is0 We haven't
heard yet. Don't know how soon we will
hear Who is this talking? Oh. yes. cap
tain of the Meek-street Swatters. Sorry
I can't tell you. Mr.. Swatter," and the
young man hung up the telephone receiver
and sat down over his machine The bell
rang again. This time it was the Weather
Bureau with the information that the
thermometer had been as high as o. The
reportorial staff pulled off vests on the
strength of the tip.
"By ginger pop it isn't as hot as it
was summer just after the war;" re-
marked the railroad editor, and away he
threshed his machine, pounding it vio-
lently to show his contempt for hot
weather that couldn't register higher
than 81.
Tng-a-ling-ling went the telephone bell
The funny man started in the direction of
the telephone. but passed right by it. The
young reporter gave the funny man re-
proachful look, then jumped up and an
swered the bell.
mo, we haven't heard yet. We don't
get the score till late" he replied, some
what vexed at the interruption. NO !
don't know who pitched. They played at
Toledo. Why Toledo in Ohio, of course"
and he dropped the receiver in disgust.
IF keep on answering that telephone I'll
never get this suicide written" he solilo-
quized, "and 1 have a whole lot of other
stuff to get up. Wish that ball club was
IN"
Ting-ting. Ting-ting. Ting-ting. The in
room. but every man was utterly uncon-
scous of the existence of the telephone
"Oh, Lordr' and he knocked over his chair,
besides fastening one of his feet in a tin
cu .s{1dS9 ,,.,o. :. ,.,,, ou,.o,
softened to- duce Ice piteh anu Miss HsS sa oIie
Jones is visiting Miss Minnie Sofa on South
Capitol avenue Yes, We'll put it in.
Thanks. Don't mention it," His face
turned a shade pinker. The SOFT fem
lnine voice Mad eased off his turbulent
spirit. He went back to the suicide write
He had just cooked up his feet on his
typewriter stand when the devilish bell rang
again. He resignedly answered. The same
old call. Somebody wanted to know what
the score was.
"Tn bet these people who ask what the
times a year. Why don't they buy a pa
per the next morning and find out, instead
of bothering the life out of me"'
He had written just forty words on the
suicide in thirty minutes. The city editor
was already urging him to rush his mat
na coe b fee nne on gou fb fq
stand this time. 1t was well, for the next
moment he was at the telephone. He told
the same story. man up on North Me-
ridian street was about TO retire and he
thought he would find out first what the
score was.
In sixty minutes the reporter answered
sixty times that he had not heard what
the score, was, By this time he was get
ting weak and marble Yhiteness was
about his mouth. He had not gone beyond
the fifth line in detailing the sad case of
the man who had hanged himself to a bed
post.
Sixty more minutes passed, and sixty
more on top of that; sixty more times he
answered the telephone bell to say that
he did not know what the score was, ana
sixty more times on that Older report
ers had gone out on distant assignments
which draws the hours along at night in a
newspaper office, midnight came. Every tel
ePhone IN the FIRST second Ihlru ana
the score, and the South-side telephones
were just beginning to get in line. The
young reporter dragged himself to the tele
phone to answer the bell at 1901. 1t was
the sweet divinity at the exchange, the
who is absolutely tireless and as pa
SAY, reporter said she in plaintive
voice. do you want me to cut the wire?'
Dear SOUL thoughtful SOUL
SAY. Exchange" replied the young man
In melancholy tones, whenever they want
to know what the score is connect them
with the brewery, or graveyard, some
thing. Don't give anybody this office any
more tonight"
Then the young man went back to his SUI
icide. His brain felt like lead and his
spine if it had been badly bent the
wrong way. The keys OF the typewriter
began to grin at him, and every time he
hit one of them the click sounded like
Say, what's the scorer He wrote a line
or two, Tipped up the carriage of his ma
chine and there in hideous comment was
the sentence: THE unfortunate man was
hanging to the bedpost. with his eyes pro-
truding in CHASTITY fashion, his tongue
wide open. asking, What's the scorer"
The young reporter, startled by his own
sensation, unwittingly caused, leaped from
his seat and cavorted around the room
like a mad dog. The pitch of the night had
been keyed too nigh for him From the
floor, where he fell, willing hands 0he
same kind the young man often described
in street accidents) lifted him. His eyes
were rolling around in their sockets like
a merry go-round, and at the mouth he
was frothing.
Expect he went against some Of that
Levee booze this afternoon" said the cold
hearted baseball editor. who had just come
in with the news of the game.
call up DR.. Miller. Something's wrong
with the lad insisted the religious report
err who cants much on the Golden Rule
and little sacrifices, but never hears the
telephone bell when there is anybody else
In the room TO answer the phone.
But the telephone bell would not ring
The young lady of the exchange had
s.xe~& rr.e4~