“We’re Broke,” Says Horgan.—“Sure,” Says Slattery, “But Our Wives Are Doing Fine.”
A brief item about the arrest of some boys for stealing five copies of “The Simple Life” he headed “Tempted Beyond Their Strength.” Over a paragraph telling of the killing of a Park Row newsboy by a truck he wrote: “A Sparrow Falls.”
Clarke had a besetting fear that Russell Sage would die suddenly late at night, and that the Sun would not learn of it in time. Again and again false “hunches” caused him to send men to the Sage home on Fifth Avenue to discover the state of the old millionaire’s health. When Mr. Sage became seriously ill, reporters were sent in relays to watch the house. One man who had such an assignment turned up at the Sun office at one o’clock in the morning.
“I left Mr. Sage’s house,” he explained to Clarke, “because Dr. Blank just came out and I had a little talk with him. He asked me if S. M. Clarke was still night city editor of the Sun; and when I told him that you were, he said:
“‘Tell Selah for me that I will call him personally on the ’phone if there is the least change in Mr. Sage’s condition. Selah and I are old friends; we used to be room-mates in college.’”
“Blank always was a darn liar!” said Mr. Clarke. “Go back to the house and sit on the door-step.”
On February 28, 1917, five years after Clarke retired, the Sun Alumni Association gave a dinner in his honour, with Mr. Lord presiding. Men came five hundred miles for the event, and the speeches were entirely about Clarke and his work. Mr. Clarke himself, who was only five miles away, sent a kindly letter to say that he was pleased, but that he could not imagine anything more absurd than a man’s attending a dinner given in his own honour.
Clarke was a factor in that nebulous institution so frequently referred to as the “Sun school of journalism,” a college in which the teaching was by example rather than precept. Clarke occasionally told the young reporters how not to do it, but his real lessons were given in the columns of the Sun. There, in cold type, the man could see that Clarke had thrown his beautiful introduction on the floor, had lifted a word or a phrase from the middle of the article and put it to the fore, or had, by one of the touches which marked the great copy-reader’s genius, breathed life into the narrative. Clarke had no rules for improving a story, but he had a faculty, not uncommon among the finest copy-readers, of seeing an event more clearly than it had appeared to the reporter who described it, even when the desk man’s information came entirely from the reporter’s screed.
If a reporter found his story in the paper almost untouched by Clarke’s pencil and adorned with a typical Clarkean head, it was a signal to him that he had done well. He was sure not to get verbal approbation from Clarke. There is a legend that Clarke once cried “Fine!” after skimming over a sheet of well-written copy, but it is only a legend. With a reporter who never wrote introductions and never padded his articles Clarke would sometimes crack a joke. Sun traditions have it that once, after a reporter had turned New York inside out to dig out a particularly difficult piece of news, the night city editor remarked to his assistant that that reporter “was a handy man to have around the office.” Although Clarke has been referred to by an excellent judge, Will Irwin, as “the greatest living schoolmaster of newspapermen,” his methods could never be adapted to the academies of journalism.
As a schoolmaster of a more positive type, Sun men remember the late Francis T. Patton, who edited suburban news for twenty years. Staff men on assignments in New Jersey, Westchester, Long Island, and other places just beyond the city turned in their copy to “Boss” Patton, a cultured man who spent his spare hours reading old Latin works in the original or working out chess problems. It was to him that the bewildered cub turned in his hour of torment, and Patton would tell him how long his story ought to run, how he might begin it, how end it.