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He knew nothing more about Paris than a blind man might know who was led to the same spot by his dog every day; and if he read the account of any uncommon events or scandals in his penny paper, they appeared to him like fantastic tales, which some pressman had made up out of his own head, in order to amuse the inferior employees.
"Before I could buy a paper, another newspaper chap comes along. He stared at me as if I was a ghost. "'Hello! he says. 'Don't you know you're lost? Every pressman in London is looking for you. "'Am I? says I. 'How? "Then it all came out. Since then I have been very careful in dealing with newspaper men." Sir Hilary laughed and nodded. "Is there anything more?" he asked. "Yes."
"None whatever," Brooks answered. The pressman folded it up silently, and passed it back. He looked at the huge pile of correspondence and at Brooks his dark thoughtful face suddenly lit up with a rare gleam of excitement. In his own mind he was making a thumb-nail sketch of these things. There was material for one of those broad, suggestive articles which his editor loved.
The phrase was perfectly unfamiliar to me, but intuitively I knew exactly what it meant, and I suppose it hurt because I felt its applicability. A 'sure thing grafter' was a criminal who took no chances, I felt; an adventurer who played for petty stakes only, because he would face no risks. Even the American pressman knew I was no criminal.
It would create a sensation in that unserene assembly which would almost be enough to make a seasoned pressman swoon, and before the incident had been completely realised the unexpected and startling fact would probably be known at the Antipodes. Mr.
The old man took up the samples and put his tongue to them, the lifelong habit of the pressman, who tests papers in this way. He felt it between his thumb and finger, crumpled and creased it, put it through all the trials by which a printer assays the quality of a sample submitted to him, and when it was found wanting in no respect, he still would not allow that he was beaten.
"Surely the last spark of manhood must have gone from the man who has so entirely lost his own individuality. He revelled in humility. He was an instrument of service nothing more." Some months had passed and our American Pressman had recorded impressions from St. Petersburg to Madrid. He was on his homeward way when once again he found himself the guest of Sir Henry.
"That's good luck," he said. "You may quit worrying, now, my dears." "Are you sure he's a good pressman, Uncle?" "No; but he is sure. I've an idea he wouldn't attempt the thing, otherwise." Mr. Merrick returned to the farm, while Arthur drove Louise over to Huntingdon to gather items for the paper, and Patsy and Beth sat in the office arranging copy.
Occasionally I said to him, "If you were ever to get your way, you would make the Press a wonderful thing, no doubt; but you would make the Pressman the best-hated creature in the Universe." At this he would burst into a roar of laughter, in which I was constrained to join. "I see, you think I'm crazy," he said once. "Well, not crazy, perhaps, but distinctly eccentric.
Extra special" blazing fiercely; the charitable appeals for the victims, the grave tones of the dailies rumbling with compassion as if they were the national bowels. All this lasted a whole week of industrious sittings. A pressman whom I knew told me "He's an idiot." Which was possible. Before that I overheard once somebody declaring that he had a criminal type of face; which I knew was untrue.
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