The newspaper spirit had its embodiment in Micky O'Byrn, the tattered knight of the road whose first story electrified the city editor of the Courier. The spirit shone out of the portals of the twinkling Irish eyes, eternally questioning. It reconnoitred the field from the bridge of the nose that twitched with eagerness at the scent of a story, as a pointer snuffs grouse. Within the mouth, that was always distended with an ingratiating smile, dwelt in amity those heavenly twins, guile and blarney. They served as forceful means to the eternal end of news-seeking, and they were backed by ramparts of cheerful impudence that flanked the whole freckled face. The chin was round, but a bump peered forth that bespoke tenacity. He ordinarily displayed a guileless expression that hid an unfathomed depth of resource. Once on the trail, he could never be turned away. When one route to information failed, he had a dozen others in readiness, leading by devious paths to the desired end.
O'Byrn's appearance, when he had selected and donned his new ready-made suit, rakish derby and vociferating shirt, was decidedly tracky. This transformation occurred soon after he joined the Courier's staff. The suit was checked in a pattern which cried aloud to heaven, the new crimson tie adding its insistent clamor. The derby was done off in a delicate drab. As for shoes, he selected tan oxfords with red ties. The ensemble, to use a word that found much favor with Micky, "jibed" harmoniously with his thick fell of lurid hair and his staring freckles. In dress, as in all else, Micky was a pronounced radical.
Micky entered upon his service for the Courier with a vim which abundantly realized his promise to "make good" if given the chance. In him energy was wedded with tenacity. He had an inexhaustible fund of subtle resource, an ingratiating impudence. Altogether, he was well adapted to his strenuous trade, the trade that sifts out so much of chaff and leaves so little wheat—and finally withers the wheat till it follows the chaff. Micky had a positive genius for coping with obstacles. If he could not "sidestep" them he climbed over, crawled under or wriggled through them. Harkins steered him up against nearly everything in those first few days and he never fell down. Harkins began to grow self-complacent regarding his discernment. He had discovered this pearl, or to put it more literally, this speckled ruby of journalism. As a matter of fact, the ruby had discovered himself, but Harkins had helped. He was entitled to congratulate himself, for the new arrival was amply demonstrating his services to be valuable.
Micky had been with the Courier a fortnight. The voice of his new apparel had been heard on the land and also on the waters. For only the previous day he had boarded a tug steaming out to the quarantine station, casually absorbed a mine of information without the suicidal flashing of a notebook and scooped the field with a harrowing chapter of abuses by those in power. His prestige was increased. A little bird slyly twittered in his ear that they had started him low in the wage line. He would better strike for more while the iron was hot, for it was like to cool quickly in this uncertain calling.
He pondered over the matter, his feet reposing on his desk, a red-eyed cigar stub in the corner of his mouth. It was midnight. He had handed in a warm political column, happened upon by accident that evening. He was always stumbling upon such accidents, that spelled spice for the reader in the morning.
Micky ceased ruminating, with a mental vow to strike 'em next day. He rose, yawned, stretched himself and strolled over to the sporting editor's desk. O'Byrn sank into an adjoining chair as his neighbor administered the finishing touches to an intercollegiate field meet of that afternoon.
"How 're ye, Fatty?" inquired Micky amiably, prodding his co-laborer in the ample excuse for his nickname.
"Fine 'nd dandy, Irish," replied the rotund Stearns rather absently, as he pensively rubbed his prodded abdomen. "Say, Irish," he burst out in an odd breathless way—Fatty's fits were a joke in the office and startling to newcomers—"good hammer throw, that. Fell short two feet, though." He shoved a written sheet over to Micky.
Micky had jumped in his chair at the onslaught, spilling cigar ashes over his noisy shirt bosom. "Short of what?" he demanded with sarcasm, blowing the ashes into Stearns' rubicund face. "Fatty, have you got 'em again?"
"Got nothin'," retorted Fatty, rubbing an ashy eye. "They'll never beat it, never," he murmured, more to himself than to Micky, with a slow shake of his fat head. "Not on your pajamas! They can't touch him."