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Updated: June 9, 2025
It seems that I had fallen into another newspaper row, all unsuspecting, and was in the opposition editor's camp. But, truly, I lay no claim to eloquence. So it must have been the facts, again. There is nothing like them.
The assignment that fell to my lot when the book was made out, the first against which my name was written in a New York editor's book, was a lunch of some sort at the Astor House. I have forgotten what was the special occasion. I remember the bearskin hats of the Old Guard in it, but little else.
His "idea" of a few minutes previous seemed ridiculous and overwrought. He would go back to the office and grind out his copy from the exchange editor's clipping. Just then his eye was caught by a familiar figure in trim, well-fitting black halted on the opposite corner waiting for the passage of a cable car. It was Travis Bessemer.
He made golden weddings gay with lengthy epics that detailed the lives of the celebrants; he brought the dubious cheer of his verses to house-warmings, church sociables, and other occasions when Smyrna found itself in gregarious mood; he soothed the feelings of mourners by obituary lines that appeared in print in the county paper when the mourners ordered enough extra copies to make it worth the editor's while.
The newspaper editor occupies a strange position. His enterprises depend upon indirect taxation levied by his advertisers upon his readers; the patronage of the advertisers depends upon the editor's skill in holding together an effective group of customers.
I would shrink from repeating the editor's words but for the reason that undue estimates have been made of the amount of skill and energy required to sail a sloop of even the Spray's small tonnage.
Our friend whispered the phrase to himself before he groaned out: "What a frightful locution! Really, really, it is more than I can bear!" "For the cause you ought to bear anything. What do you really think?" "Why, if the former's work is as good as the latter's, why isn't the former's chance as good if the current editor's demands are for the same kind in the former's case as in the latter's?
Bartley said nothing to betray that he had already been at the Events office, and upon this friendly editor's invitation to drop in again some time he went away considerably re-inspirited. "If you should happen to go to the Chronicle-Abstract folks," the editor called after him, "you can tell them I suggested your coming."
It's not very different after all from your Sunday editor's suggestion except in the spirit of its making." "Still, there is a difference," he assured her. "The footlights are between and they give a sense of separation and protection. Was Herron the Sunday man particularly obnoxious? He's not human, you know he's just an efficient machine."
He knew that two heavy, technical, financial studies thus thrown at an editor's head, would probably return to crush the author; but the audacity of youth is more sympathetic when successful than his ignorance. The editor accepted both. When the post brought his letter, Adams looked at it as though he were a debtor who had begged for an extension.
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