A few days after Adams returned to his duties Mr. Dana came out of his room and asked the city editor, Mr. Kellogg, the name of the reporter who had written an article to which he pointed. Kellogg told Dana that Adams was the author, and Dana strode across the room and bestowed upon the reporter one of his brief and much prized commentaries of approval. Then he looked at Adams more closely, and, with raised eyebrows, walked to the managing editor’s desk.
“Who is that young man?” he asked Mr. Lord, indicating Adams with a movement of the head.
Mr. Lord murmured something.
“Didn’t I order him discharged a few days ago?” said Mr. Dana.
Another but more prolonged murmur from Mr. Lord. Adams got up from his desk to efface himself, but as he left the room he caught the voice of Mr. Dana, a trifle higher and a bit plaintive:
“Why is it, Mr. Lord, that I never succeed in discharging any of your bright young men?”
Adams did not wait for the answer.
This story, while typical of Lord, is not typical of Dana. For every word of censure he had a hundred words of praise. He read the paper—every line of it—for virtues to be commended rather than for faults to be condemned.
“Who wrote the two sticks about the lame girl? A good touch; that’s the Sun idea!”
If a new man had written something he liked—even a ten-line paragraph—the editor of the Sun would cross the room to shake the man’s hand and say: