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Show THE CITIZEN 16 Jiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiui Confession Of The Old 'Wise Slhoppeirs Reporter mance, the past, the future, aye, the significance of everything. I heartily concurred in this. I had never known a reporter without imagination to blossom into a real star. .And so faking is gone, I said by way of spurring him on, for I knew that he had a fund of odd recollections. For the present, he sighed, but it will come back. The people must have their Arabian Nights. Perhaps the public is becoming to well informed to be taken in by e the fake, I venteured. Never believe it, he cried, rushMoreing to the defense of his art. fake is simply a over, an constant out worn by story use. There is no necessity of employing such a fake. An artist always can devise something marvelous, something almost as strange and even more gripping than the truth. "How did you acquire the art? we asked. He did not look insulted. At one time he had had a countrywide reputation, among reporters, for his fertility and artistry in creating and was pleasant to see his merry again after so many years the most adept and unconscionable faker we had met in our newspaper career. He dropped in on us while moving by easy stages from the Pacific to the Atlantic, a trip he has made no less than a dozen times. As we shook hands both of us laughed at the same gay imps of recollection. Somewhere far back in his career as a reporter, even before he went to the big' cities, he had been accorded, and no doubt had earned, the fairly Humbug descriptive sobriquet of Harry. we inStill at the old game? I,T face quired. Which? he said, reporting or T ake advantage of the Complete and Varied Assortment of Hardware displayed in our Up-to-da- te I 1 Hardware Department Store I old-tim- old-tim- e fak- ing? You were good at both, we replied, diplomatically. The old game of reporting is much the same as ever, he said, and, after a moments pause in which we detected a shade of melancholy, he added: But the fine art of faking is much neglected. we inAnd who is to blame? Are there no more artists? quired. Have they all departed into the more remunerative fields of fiction writing? The chief cause of the change is the chief cause of almost everything It is the nowadays, he responded. fabricating a fake. Some of his news stories had circled .so-call- ed the EVERY ITEM A 1 QUALITY PRODUCT SOLD ON MERIT I The hardware Co. globe. war. And what has that to do with it? It is quite simple, he went on to During the war only the explain. most interesting stories were wanted by the city editors. The war news was so exciting that local news and feature stories were cut to the bone. One was not permitted to play up anything. Then came the paper shortage. The papers everywhere were reduced in size and this placed a new limit of brevity on the reporters writings. The fake disappeared. The reporter became a mere newsgatherer. We could not but laugh at his expression of gloomy disgust. It left you your occupation, never-theelswe said. But newsgathering is a dull occupation compared with feature writing, he replied. You mean faking, we said coldly and cruelly. Call it what you like, he said, but remember the old lines, You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will; the scent of the roses will hang round it still. I I inquired. Meaning what? didnt know it was a poets game. Indeed it was. It was only the reporter with an imagination that could write an artistic fake, one that fascinated the readers interest and, at the same time, was convincing. As a matter of fact, an unimaginative reporter cannot write even a good news story. Such . a. one .thinks he sees the news, but doesnt. He glimpses a few facts and neglects everything else the ro s, he When I was a young fellow, said, I was constantly receiving polite notes from city editors saying that my services were no longer required. A few, less polite, stated with brutal candor that I was incompetent, and I was. I hadnt the slightest nose for news, but I had imagination and, in time, it told in my favor. In each new city I came to I applied for a position as hotel reporter. Then I proceeded to manufacture a fake. My favorite was to persuade some hotel clerk to inscribe the name of a mythical Chinese functionary, Chen Yuey Sing, and then to inter-viethe official in my own way. The story went well in St. Louis, where the functionary stated that China had just become familiar with the merits of St. Louis shoes and intended to spend millions buying footwear in that city, and there only. I tried the same story in another city where folk were not so much interested in shoes and the city editor cut out most of the interview. I learned from that to put no limit on my imagination. I started out to be a real faker. But meantime other Americans had been making progress in the art. About twenty-fivyears ago I obtained a position on the Omaha World-HeralThey assigned me to the day police work. At that time there was about one good story a week. Why they persisted in having day police reporters who did nothing except that work I cant explain. It was a dead town, so far as daytime police news was concerned. The police court wa?f about our only source of inspiration, and we could not write w , e d. It Lake ?fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimjiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimmiimin? more than 200 or 300 words of interest on anything. One day a companionable chap named Bickheyser introduced himself and said that he had just gone to work on the Bee. I introduced him to the News reporter, Harmsley. when I arrived and was as gloomy as I. He had met with the same cold and bitter rebuffs from his city editor and had even been given to understand that there were other reporters applying for jobs. Just then Bickheyser, confident and passed us. Both of us ground That afternoon Harmsley and I smiling, our teeth and Harmsley cursed. both received a jolt. A most amazIts so simply, Harmsley, I said, ing story appeared in the Bee about two men who had been booked for "that there is no reason for hysterics. I am as good a faker potentially as disturbing the peace. We had investhis Bickheyser person ever dared to tigated the case and had found that the two had engaged in a prosaic be. Those stories of his are mere weeds upon the sea of faking. Be- brawl, throwing dust on one another neath lie fields of priceless perils. in the middle of the street. In the You mean, said Harinsley, that hands of Bickheyser that incident had transformed itself into romance we can do the same thing. You are young, my child, I said, and poetry. It was one of the most and I hate to lead you into temptaartistic fakes I had ever seen. When tion, but you have in you the making my city editor had read the tale he glowered at me sourly and asked me of one of the worlds greatest fakers if you will only put yourself under how I had come to be scooped on such a big story. Ye gods, a big story! It my tutelage. was a big fake and I told the city Cut it out and get down to brass editor so. I kept telling him that tacks he said. about Bickheysers stories for three .Ill devise a fake and well print bitmore days running and he became it in our esteemed and perfectly reI made my liable terly sarcastic each time journals and see how it goes. excuses. Harmsley acquiesced and we deI could see one of those polite vised a lively story about a fire in a reto notes coming and I determined Chinese laundry. There had been form quickly. such a fire, but there was not the sugVery well, old boy, said I to myself, shaking my fist at gestion of a story in it. I began by. the city editor behind his back, T picturing a scene in which an aget$a know what you want and oure going Chinese, held fast to his chair by age to get it. Henceforth no one shall say and bodily ills, was dozing in his to deliver that Humbug Harry failed room on the second story of the -: the goods dry,, while., his. .sons. .and their wives (Continued on Page 22.) Harmsley was at the police station , , . , |
