His First Assignment

Tom Collins read again the inscription on the directory at the foot of the stairs:

Room 36 City Editor and Reporters

glanced again toward the elevator, again drew his letter of introduction from his pocket, and--again retreated to the doorway. Once more his heart had failed him.

The result of the impending interview with the city editor of the Washington Evening World meant so much to him that he feared to meet it. Another failure and--what? Surely not starvation. To a youth of nineteen, normally healthy and hopeful, the idea of starvation in a great city, surrounded by thousands of human beings, seems preposterous. And yet when the few coins yet remaining in his pocket were gone he would be absolutely at the end of his resources; unless--unless fortune favored him in the next few minutes. He had tried every newspaper office in the city with disheartening results; every office save this one. He reread, perhaps for the twentieth time, the letter he held, then placed it back in its envelope with a sigh. The words sounded so empty and perfunctory, the World was such a big paper, his own ignorance was so great, and--and he was discouraged. However--

He thrust the letter back into his pocket, jammed his cap resolutely onto his head, and strode determinedly to the elevator.

"City editor," he announced gruffly.

Room 36 seemed acres big to Tom as he closed the door behind him. Some dozen men and youths occupied the apartments and to the nearest of these Tom applied. He was not much over Tom's age and was busily engaged in cutting a newspaper into shreds with a pair of extraordinarily large shears. When interrupted he looked up carelessly but good naturedly and pointed to a far corner of the room.

"That's the city ed; the fellow with the glasses."

Tom thanked him and went on.

The man with the glasses took no notice of his approach but continued his writing, puffing the while on a very black briar pipe. He was apparently about thirty-five years of age, had a fierce and bristling mustache, and rushed his pencil vindictively across the copy paper as though he were writing the death sentence of his worst enemy.

"Well?"

Tom started. The voice was as savage as the man's appearance, and Tom's heart sank within him.

"What do you want?" The editor's forehead was a mass of wrinkles and his eyes glared threateningly from behind his glasses. Tom found his voice and laid the letter on the desk.

"Humph," said the editor. He read the short message and tossed it aside. "Ever done newspaper work?" he asked.

"No, sir," Tom replied.

"Then what do you want to begin for?"

"To make a living."

"Oh," sneered the editor, "thought perhaps you wanted to elevate the press. You're a college