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Updated: June 14, 2025
When I read of the elaborate preparations being made to cover the great event, of the special writers, experts, broadcasters, cameramen, I was thankful indeed I was no longer a newspaperman, arbitrarily to be ordered aloft or sent aboard some erratic craft offshore on the bare chance I might catch a comprehensive or distinctive enough glance of the action to repay an editor for my discomfort.
"I'm Metcalf of the News, in the capital," he told Keller, the proprietor. And Keller quietly ushered the newspaperman upstairs, where the latter stood for a long time until Mrs. Lawler opened the door of the sickroom for him. Metcalf entered, looked down at Lawler, and then drew Shorty aside where, in a whispered conversation he obtained the particulars of the fight and the wounding of Lawler.
After a highly successful trip I returned home the same day the Grass reached the headwaters of the Mississippi. William Rufus Le ffaçasé astonished me, as well as every newspaperman in the country by resigning as editor of the Daily Intelligencer, a post he had held before many of its reporters were born.
"And besides," he added, "if you did get ads you couldn't set them up." With that final fling at my inefficiency he took the stage on to Pierre. The average newspaperman would have sneered at these plains printing outfits, and thrown the junk out on the prairie to be buried under the snowdrifts; but not many of us were eligible to the title.
You've suffered a great deal. But you have misunderstood Captain Simms. I have heard about this from him, before. He has no desire to cheat you. He is rejoiced to see you alive, though afflicted. He is still Honest Simms, Mr. Lund. "I haven't your name, sir," he went on pleasantly, to Rainey. "The captain said you were a newspaperman?" "John Rainey, of the Times.
We were up to the bars now, shapeless hooded bundles of snow and frost. A man stood in the doorway of a lighted little cubby behind the bars. A black muzzle in his hand was leveled at us. "He sees no one. Who are you?" Alan was pressing at me from behind. I shoved him back, and took a step forward. I touched the bars. "My name is Fred Davis. Newspaperman from Montreal I must see Mr. Rascor."
Running dark's her long suit." For a moment he hesitated, then he added: "She looked a whole lot like the Gray Ghost." "Interesting, if true," muttered Hawkins, sliding nearer to the operator. Then he asked aloud: "Who's the Gray Ghost?" Bronson noted the suppressed eagerness of the man's tone. Then he remembered that Hawkins was a newspaperman. Reporters were a nosey class as a rule.
They'd swiped his pictures and told him to keep his mouth shut. This last was what made Les King mad. He'd found the story. It was his by every right. But when they were ready to break it they'd do it through some privileged Washington newspaperman who'd get it on a silver platter. The hell with that stuff. It would take more than a shadowy character like Brent Taber to scare him off.
The newspaperman was no experienced analyst of woman nature, but he saw, or thought he saw, the girl watching Lund closely when he talked, studying him, sometimes with more than a hint of approbation, at others with a look that was puzzled, seeming to be working at a problem. The giant's liking for her, boyish at times, or swiftly changing to bolder appraisal, grew daily.
Yet back of all the noise and human energy, as a newspaperman, I could think only of the silent, systematic gathering and editing of the news, of the busy scenes that each journal's office presented, the haste, the excitement, the thrill in the very smell of the printer's ink. Miss Ashton, I was glad to note, as we proceeded downtown, fell more and more into the spirit of the adventure.
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