“Come in,” he said without looking up.
The man who entered was tall and slender, young enough to be well this side of thirty and old enough, in his experiences, to wear that manner of schooled, appraising disillusionment which marks so many of his calling. Most good reporters look like good reporters; they [311] radiate from them knowledge, confidence, skepticism, sometimes a little of pessimism, and always a good deal of sophisticated enthusiasm. It is the same air which goes with men, be their separate callings what they may, who have devoted their lives to prying open the lid of the world to see what makes the thing tick. They have a curiosity not only to see the wheels go round but to find out what the motive power behind and beneath the wheels may be.
Never mind what the after-dinner speaker says—the press is not an Archimedean lever and probably never was. It is a kit containing a cold chisel, a test acid, an assay chemical and a paint-box. Generally the users of this outfit bear themselves accordingly. Once in a while, though, there comes along a reporter who deceivingly resembles a rather stupid, good-natured plumber’s helper dressed in his Sunday best. To look at him he seems as plain as an old shoe, as open as an old shoe too. But if you have something to hide from the public gaze, beware this person. He is the most dangerous one of them all. His business being everybody’s business, he is prepared to go to any ends to dig it out. As a professional detective he could make himself famous. He prefers to remain a journeyman reporter.
“Take a chair, Singlebury,” said Mr. Foxman; “I’ll be through here in just a minute.”
Singlebury sat down, glancing about him. It was the first time he had seen this room. He [312] had been on The Clarion’s staff less than a month, having come on from the West, where he served the years of his apprenticeship on a San Francisco daily. Presently his chief swivelled half round so as to face him.
“Young man,” he said, “I’ve got a cracking good assignment for you—one that ought to put you in right, in this shop and this town. Ordinarily this job would go to Shesgren—he usually handles this sort of thing for me—but Shesgren is up at Albany keeping his eye on General Lignum’s political fences, and I don’t want to call him back, especially as the general is leaving the country to-night. Besides you did a good job of work last week on that Oskarson baby-stealing mystery, and so I’ve decided to give you a chance to swing this story.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Singlebury, flushing up a little. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Your best won’t do—you’ve got to do better than your best. Did you ever hear, since you came to this town, of the Pearl Street trolley line or the Pearl Street trolley loop?”
“Well,” said Singlebury, “I know there is such a line as the Pearl Street line. That’s about all.”
“That needn’t hamper you,” said Mr. Foxman. “I’d a little rather you went at this thing with an open mind, anyhow. These clippings here”—he tapped one heap of them with his forefinger—“ought to give you a pretty clear idea of the situation in the past, if you’ll read [313] ’em through carefully. They’ll show you that the Pearl Street line has been a sort of financial football for certain interests down in Wall Street for a good many years. The fellows behind it starved it to death and let the equipment run down while they juggled the paper and skinned the dear public.”