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The picturesque details of this narrative, and their capability of distribution under attractive catch-heads almost maddened the reporter's soul in Pinney with longing to make newspaper material of Northwick on the spot.
Bryan in the village of Chicago sitting by at a reporter's table saw him doing it. Bryan saw how it worked. Bryan had it in him too. Bryan heard the shouts of the people across the land as they gloried in the fight. He saw the signals from the nations over the sea. Then Armageddon moved to Baltimore. And now table is about to be spread. It is to be Mr. Wilson's soup.
No other employment offers so many excitements; in nothing else does the laborer live so truly behind the scenes. The stage is wide, the action varied and constant. The youngest tyro, watching from the wings, observes great incidents and becomes their hasty historian. The reporter's status is unique.
He was indistinctly heard at the reporter's table, owing to the distance which separated him from it, and the constant hum of conversation, which by this time was becoming general. He was understood to express the proud satisfaction he felt at being present that evening, and more especially as his name had been associated with the toast of Australian Exploration.
This was on the occasion of her last visit to Endbury before her confinement, a few days after her call from Flora Burgess. It had occurred to her that they might know something about the reporter's family and she stopped in after her shopping to inquire. She found her aunt and her godfather sitting in the deeply shaded, old grape arbor in their back yard; Dr. Melton with a book, as always, Mrs.
The fact is worth noting, for in scores of instances what was adduced by opponents as quotation from his utterances in the United States represented simply some American journalist's impression, perhaps less of what Redmond said than of what, in the reporter's opinion, he should have said.
There seemed to be more or less mystery about this man who had provoked all those curses from the secretive chief clerk of the treasury. "Can you give me any information about these men who are meeting here to-day?" "Meeting of the Independent Corn-Growers' Association." The reporter's gaze was frankly skeptical, but Farr met it without a flicker of the eyelids.
Of course, Bok, as editor of the Tonic, promptly pigeon-holed the reporter's "copy"; then relented, and, in a fine spirit of large-mindedness, "printed" Kipling's pæans of rapture over Bok's subscriber. The preparation of the paper was a daily joy: it kept the different members busy, and each evening the copy was handed to "the large circle of readers" the two women of the party to read aloud.
The next second that look broke into an easy laugh, and Hammerton was a chattering boy again. But Varney's mood rose instantly to meet the antagonism of the reporter's look, and hung there. He pulled a silver case from his pocket, selected a cigarette with care and lit it with deliberation.
What did you say?" "Oh, never mind," said Helen. "Go on." "He appealed for corroboration to his friend, the chap up at Park Church, you know, that sleek, kid-gloved fellow." "Burns?" asked Brown, innocently, delighted in the reporter's description of Lloyd and desiring more of it. "No. You know that orator chap, liquid eyes, mellifluous voice, and all the rest of it." "Oh, Lloyd." "Yes.
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